


A Trench Coat's Tale

by ladyofthesilent



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Community: dc_everafter, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 16:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofthesilent/pseuds/ladyofthesilent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU after 7x01: Dean and Sam investigate a series of murders in Surprise, Arizona, when Castiel’s ghost starts following them around. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad - except only Dean can see him, and the angel’s completely oblivious to who he is and what he’s done. When he regains his memory, he teaches Dean a thing or two about the meaning of friendship and the consequences of Free Will. [based on the movie "Just like Heaven" and the novel "Et si c'était vrai" by Marc Levy; written for the dc_everafter challenge 2012 in cooperation with my friend true-romance]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the dc_everafter challenge 2012. As I was preparing to leave for Africa at the time, I didn't really get a chance to edit the manuscript before posting. It is only thanks to the betawork done by the great remivel that this fic wasn't a complete disaster by the time it was first published. 
> 
> Now I've finally found the time to try and improve a few things before reposting the fic. I hope it's better than the first time around, and I want to thank everyone who took the time to comment on the story and helped pointing out flaws and errors.
> 
> Back in the days, the fic received art from two great artists, which you can check out here:
> 
> Art Post 1 (theblackrose16): http://theblackrose16.livejournal.com/21483.html  
> Art Post 2 (asherahseren): http://asherahseren.livejournal.com/5204.html

**Grangeville, Idaho**

Elizabeth Masterson was used to the sight. As a doctor, she'd long accepted death as a part of everyday life: a familiar, yet unfathomable force that awaited people in the hospital, on the road, and sometimes in the relative safety of their own private living room. No doubt the Grim Reaper's presence was inextricably linked to her profession, and if things had gone their normal way, she’d have recorded the man’s demise and gone to wherever she was needed next.

Except there was nothing normal about the drowned Adonis of Lake Tolo.

The call reporting a naked and presumably injured man by the shore of Grangeville’s most popular recreational lake had reached them just before lunchtime. Elizabeth had known immediately something was off, seeing it was unlikely he'd just gone there for a swim. It was November, after all, and the water was probably freezing. By the time they’d reached the place, things had gotten from weird to outright bizarre. A bunch of people had already assembled around the poor guy, but the man who’d called them in the first place was missing. When one of the paramedics snapped at the audience to back off and leave unless they had something to contribute, everyone was quick to hurry away. Only an old couple stayed behind, saying they’d seen someone kneeling beside the body. Sadly, they couldn’t recall anything remarkable, save for the fact he’d been eating ice cream.

Elizabeth rubbed her freezing hands together and frowned. Either the people of Grangeville had gone crazy within the blink of an eye, or they’d become indifferent to temperature.

From what she could detect, the man was dead. He’d probably drowned and then been washed up on the shore, albeit it was clear he couldn’t have been dead for long. He looked peaceful, almost as if he was taking a little nap by the waterside and Elizabeth found she couldn't stop staring at him. He was youngish, maybe in his early thirties, with unruly black hair and light stubble. His head had rolled to the side, revealing a long neck and narrow shoulders. His naked body was pale, skin like porcelain, and she couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was something otherworldly about him that reached beyond the distant expression of death.

“I guess there’s nothing left for us to do?” Greg, one of the paramedics asked.

Elizabeth looked up, startled.

“No. No… I’m just—”

_Well, what was she doing anyways? Kneeling beside a dead body, appreciating its beauty?_

But he really didn’t look all that dead. And then, it occurred to her that maybe he’d been alive when the emergency call had reached them. Maybe he still could be resuscitated. If only…

And without as much as a second thought, she pressed her hands over his breastbone. In retrospect, she’d say it was the weirdest thing she’d ever done, bereft of any sense or logic. Even if there’d been a chance his heart would resume its work, a cardiac massage shouldn't have done the job. Except that it did. It was actually scary how little effort it took until, suddenly, his chest heaved and he started spluttering water all over his shoulder and Elizabeth’s gloves.

“Oh my God!” Greg exclaimed, and Elizabeth was almost inclined to believe that _He_ must’ve had a hand in this.

 

Only a few feet away, a small, rather unremarkable man left his vantage point by the side of the lake. He smiled, obviously pleased with himself, while another ice cream cone appeared in his hand. _Vanilla and strawberry, always a classic_ , he mused, savoring the taste. There were definitely perks to having a human body, and he sincerely hoped his brother would come to see them one day.

He smirked when the ambulance rushed past with blazing lights, sirens howling. His vivid brown eyes followed the vehicle across a junction and down the road until it disappeared from sight behind the line of trees.

_And this is only the beginning._

 

He allowed himself a moment of high spirits, convinced of his own genius. Things were going to get interesting, but until the time came, there was still a lot of work to do. He bid his farewell to a perplexed group of ducklings before taking off with what could have been mistaken for the quiet rustle of wings.

 


	2. Chapter 1

**Surprise, Arizona**

 

“Surprise!” Sam chanted, followed by a happy tune Dean recognized as a commercial for fabric softener.

“Will you shut _the fuck_ up!”

He slapped the steering wheel for emphasis, but his infuriating brother kept on humming until he’d finished the stupid song about a sexy chick’s surprise when she discovered the astonishing softness of her barely existent white dress. It was maddening.

“Come on, Dean,” Sam chuckled good-naturedly, “it’s the town’s name, after all!”

“I wouldn’t allow you to express your girly feelings in music, even if this place was called _Big Balls_. Next week, you’re gonna tell me you want to take dancing lessons, Bollywood style.”

“Geez, Dean. Sounds like someone's grumpy.”

Sam actually had the audacity to place one of his Bigfoot-sized boots against the dashboard, clearly set on annoying his brother. So far, it worked.

“I’m sorry I’m not busy cheering I’ll be playing babysitter while some supernatural freak is slaughtering his way through town.”

With an annoyed huff, Sam sat up straight and turned to face Dean.

“Okay! Stop it right there,” he snapped. “I’m okay, I really am. How often do we have to go through this until you believe me that I’m no longer hallucinating?”

So they were at it again. _Just great._ Not that Dean hadn’t seen it coming, of course. Which was why he’d been so reluctant in the first place when Sam had suggested they go after this case together. Sam was not ready yet. He just _knew_ it.

“Sam, I’m just saying that—,” he started, but was cut short.

“You think that I’m going crazy, but it’s not true. I know I’ve had a hard time. _Hell_ , I know I’ve given _you_ a hard time. But the way things have turned out was for the better. If Cas hadn’t—”

Dean let out a dangerous growl.

“Alright, if my wall hadn’t been ripped away, it would have crumbled anyways. I… I’ve felt it for some time, you know?”

Sam had tried to explain it more than once, but Dean, if being honest, had a hard time believing anything his brother said these days. He seemed okay now, but only weeks ago, he’d barely been able to tell dream from reality. How was Dean to know whether the hallucinations were really gone for good?

“Small glimpses, and they were driving me mad,” Sam continued, unperturbed. “But now—now I have the whole picture and it feels kind of… I guess _detached_ would be the right word. They are my memories, but they could just as well belong to someone else.”

“Okay, I get it,” Dean interrupted before Sam could elaborate some more. “Or I don’t. Anyway, I have no idea why you’re doing this and whether you’re just trying to protect that stupid son of a bitch. But I’m gonna tell you this, and I’m gonna say it just once: If this… _condition_ of yours gets us into trouble, I swear I’m gonna kick your ass until you’re back in the pit.”

It was a harsh thing to say, even for Dean, but Sam didn't look offended. Instead, Dean had to put up with yet another enthusiastic smile and a cheerful rejoinder:

“Understood and signed,” Sam chirped, then: “Oh, look, there’s a motel!”

 

Judging from its outside appearance, the Winchesters had stayed at both better and worse places than the _Windmill Suites Motel_. The facade was unspectacular, but freshly painted, albeit in a horrible color that was neither brown nor yellow. The place offered conference facilities and Dean assumed the rooms weren't that bad either. He didn’t need much, really. Just a bed, a shower, and wireless connection to keep Sam busy, and he was thoroughly content.

“I’m going in and get us a room,” Sam announced after he’d spent ample time stretching his limbs.

Dean nodded and went to retrieve their duffles from the Impala’s trunk. When he could be sure Sam was safely out of sight, he grabbed his brother’s bag and dropped it on the gravel, then started rummaging for his own. He found it buried beneath an oil can, random tools, a plastic bag, and a sweater he’d forgotten to pack and carelessly thrown on top of everything else. Tugging on the handle, he managed to get the duffel out, but dragged some other stuff along with it.

He cursed, then bent down to pick up the bits and pieces, only to find one of them wouldn’t budge.

_Oh crap!_

He’d completely forgotten about Castiel’s trench coat, and now the goddamn thing had escaped the safe confines of the Impala’s trunk in all its ugly, over-sized glory. Dean’s stomach clenched painfully, but when he reached for it again, it was gone.

“What the—”

Dean's mouth fell open, eyes wide with shock.

His gaze traveled across the gravel to a polished pair of black shoes, then up a cheap two-piece suit and right to the familiar face of a man— _being_ —he thought he’d never see again.

There could be no doubt it was Castiel standing there, holding the trench coat and scrutinizing it eagerly, as if the worn-out texture held some sort of hidden meaning.

“Cas,” Dean gasped out, unable to believe his eyes.

But Castiel—or the thing wearing Castiel’s face—didn’t look up.

“Castiel,” Dean tried again, but blank astonishment had long been suffocated by the disquieting feeling that something was off. He took a deep breath and moved backwards, prepared to reach for a gun if the thing in front of him turned out to be yet another shape shifter. Or, even worse, a particularly nasty trick of those freakin’ Leviathans. His senses were running on all cylinders, eager to catch on the tiniest move that would betray the bastard for whatever it was. His eyes remained fixed on Castiel’s hands, long fingers stroking over stained cloth, but if anything, the gesture was making him nervous.

When he dared to look him in the face, Castiel had his gaze set on Dean, eying him curiously. He tilted his head and frowned, clearly trying to make sense of something Dean couldn’t really fathom. The whole posture was so perfectly Castiel he almost wanted to believe it was him, despite the fact there was no reasonable explanation as to who should have resurrected him, and why.

“If you’re not Cas,” Dean said cautiously, “then give me back the trench coat.”

He extended his hand, but Castiel apparently saw it as a threat and turned away from Dean.

“It is an overcoat,” he remarked petulantly, “and it is not yours!”

Dean rolled his eyes, wondering how whoever was impersonating Castiel managed such a perfect imitation of his mannerisms.

“How would you know if you’re not Castiel?”

It was probably a bad idea to take the game any further, but Dean had always sucked at the whole “resisting temptation” thing. If the creeper wanted to play, that was just fine with him. Lunging forward, he ripped the trench coat from the angel-lookalike’s hands, but soon found his reflexes had a worthy opponent. Castiel was quick enough to grab the lapels and held on tight until they were both pulling on Jimmy Novak’s abused possession.

 

Meanwhile, Sam was doing his best to ignore the unbelievably tasteless furnishings adorning the lobby.

“Our doubles have an en-suite bathroom,” the receptionist, an elderly lady with long painted fingernails, announced cheerfully.

“That’s great,” Sam replied, finding himself distracted by the pattern on a nearby lampshade.

_Was his eyesight failing him, or were those actually kittens?_

“Sir?”

Startled, Sam looked back at the receptionist.

“I’m sorry, I was asking you whether you wanted me to include breakfast?”

“No, thanks.” He suspected Dean would want to grab breakfast in town, pie and all. “We only need—”

When he noticed the receptionist’s attention was no longer directed at him, he stopped mid-sentence and followed her gaze. She seemed distracted by something going on outside the window. Something taking place in the parking lot, where Dean—

—was whirling around a trench coat. _Castiel’s_ trench coat.

Sam blinked once, twice, then looked at the kittens and back to Dean who seemed to be caught in an imaginary struggle involving the coat and an invisible opponent.

“Uhh… Ma'am?”

This wasn’t the time to ponder whether it was him or Dean suffering from hallucinations, Sam figured. It was all about damage control.

“Yes?”

Obviously, she had a hard time separating herself from the disconcerting sight.

“Could you… eh, could you maybe explain again how those keycards work?”

 

“Dean?”

“Thank God, Sammy!”

Dean actually wanted to say something about Sam taking his sweet time with the receptionist while he was fighting for his very life. But with Castiel regaining the upper hand on the trench coat, he found he was getting quickly out of breath.

“I could,” he gasped, “use some help, you know?”

Sam, however, seemed miles away from wrapping his mind around what was going on. Not that Dean could blame him. The presence of a trench coat-stealing Castiel-clone probably startled him as much as it had Dean only minutes ago. Still, _goddammit_ , no reason to stand around like a fuckin’ road sign.

“Holy motherfuckin’ Christ, what’s wrong with you?”

If anything, Dean’s words only sent Sam into a yet deeper state of complete and utter dumbfoundedness.

“What’s wrong with whom?”

Just when Dean turned to his brother in exasperation, Castiel tugged hard enough to send him skidding over the gravel.

“Will you give me that overcoat?” he growled behind clenched teeth.

“Never!” Dean snapped back.

And with one final, almost superhuman exertion of strength, he pulled and ripped the coat from Castiel’s hands. He expected the angel to leap at him, but Castiel just stood there, tie lose and twisted, hands fumbling with the lapels of Jimmy’s cheap black suit. Dean thought he looked lost. It was obvious the coat had triggered something, a memory maybe. But whatever it had been, the spell seemed broken now.

“Cas?” Dean tried again. “Hey, Cas!” He snapped his fingers, but the angel seemed unable to surface from his reverie. When he finally started talking, the words were like a punch to Dean's face.

“Who are you?” he said. “And why am I here?”

But before Dean’s mind got a chance to process the actual meaning of those words, Sam decided to be Sam. Which, of course, included barging in conversations at the most inopportune moment.

“Cas?” he blurted out.

 _Awkward_ , Dean thought. The expression on his brother’s face was strange. There was no surprise, no horror, no astonishment. He just looked—well, as if Dean was the one freaking him out.

“Cas, yeah,” Dean snapped, gaze traveling between the apparently confused angel and his moron brother. “Sam, don’t you ever again tell me you’re okay when—”

“Dean!” Sam interjected, louder this time, “are you kidding me?”

And then, it hit him, right there between the eyes. Sam hadn’t even looked at Castiel. Not once. Which could only mean one thing.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed. “Sam, please don’t tell me it’s Lucifer again.”

On the verge of panicking, he looked over to Castiel, but the angel seemed oblivious to what was going on.

“Lucifer?” Sam frowned. “Dean, who are you looking at?”

“Sammy, you’re not actually tellin’ me you can’t—”

Dean almost choked on his own words. His gaze traveled between Sam and Castiel, then came to rest upon the trench coat in his hands.

“There is no one, Dean,” Sam said quietly. “We’re alone in this parking lot.”

No doubt, this was Sam’s way of telling him that, obviously, he wasn’t the only one seeing dead angels. And on the spur of the moment, Dean decided he wasn’t going to deal with this shit. Purposely ignoring Castiel, the hallucination, or whatever trick his mind was playing on him, he tossed the trench coat back into the trunk and ripped the keycard from his brother’s hand.

Then he stormed off towards the bungalows, completely oblivious of the fact that Castiel was slowly dissolving right behind his back.

 

Ten minutes later, Dean still felt shaken, unable to decide whether he'd just seen a ghost, or if his mind had been playing tricks on him.

 _You’ve definitely seen better days, dude,_ he thought wearily.

He stood in the small, yellow-tiled bathroom, hands braced against the sink while he was regarding himself in the mirror. Admittedly, the sight was less than pleasing. His hair was longer than it had been for quite a while, growing over his ears and changing the familiar contours of his face into something he barely recognized. Lack of sleep had taken its toll, though maybe whiskey and beer had made their contribution as well. He was almost surprised to discover he’d grown a considerable length of stubble, but found he couldn’t remember for the life of him when he’d last shaved.

Which was worrying in itself, especially since he was equally oblivious to where he’d packed his razor. _No drinking tonight_ , he told himself. Just a shave and a shower, and then he’d try to grab some sleep. One Winchester hallucinating dead angels was quite enough.

His resolutions lasted until a knock pulled him out of his reverie.

“Dean, come on, open the door!”

Dean startled and almost slipped on a heinous green rubber mat.

“Geez, Sam! Can’t you leave a guy alone to take a piss?”

“You’ve been taking a piss for nearly ten minutes now. Either something’s wrong with your prostate, or—”

“There’s nothing wrong with any part of me, thank you very much for your concern.”

“Dean, you can’t just pretend this— _thing_ out there never happened.”

“Says who?”

And with that, he turned on the faucet until the sound of splattering water was drowning his brother’s chick-flick lines. He splashed some of the cool liquid over his face and arms, marveling at how good it felt after a day’s drive. Dean was actually starting to feel better when, all of a sudden, the atmosphere changed. At first it was barely noticeable, like a breeze sweeping in through an open window, but soon, it seemed to penetrate the entire bathroom. If Dean hadn’t known better, he’d have said it was like a pair of eyes staring holes into his back.

Which was sort of impossible unless—

When the realization hit, Dean’s body became taut like a bowstring. His eyes flew open in shock, his breath hitched and he thought he could actually feel the blood rushing through his veins.

 _Calm down_ , he told himself. _This is not possible._

 _Well, if it isn’t_ , the nagging voice inside his head insisted, _you may just as well turn ‘round and check for yourself._

“Alright,” he said, oblivious to the fact he was talking to an empty room.

Ever so slowly, he turned his head until he could glimpse at what was going on behind him. He blinked once, twice, but the image didn’t go away. Faced with the horrible truth, he spun around and slipped on the rubber mat, almost hitting his head in the process.

“Y-you,” he gasped, still fighting to regain his composure.

He almost felt his knees give way at the sight splayed out before him: Castiel was sitting in the tub, still dressed in his two piece suit and shoes. His tie had apparently developed a life of its own, hanging across his shoulder in almost tantalizing nonchalance. The look on his face was one of utter cluelessness, as if he’d been abducted by aliens and beamed back to earth without even the most basic understanding of all the crazy experiments they ran on his brain (and possibly other parts of his body, but Dean didn’t really want to think about _that_ ). So all in all, Castiel didn’t look all too different from his usual self. Except for the fact that he shouldn’t be looking _like anything_.

_Mostly because Castiel was dead, and if you were dead and could still be looked at, it meant you had to be a ghost. Right?_

“ _How can you even be here?”_ Dean wanted to ask.

But what he actually said was:

“What the fuck are you doing in my bathtub?”

“I don’t think this is your bathtub,” Castiel deadpanned. “There was a sign outside, and it said that this place is a motel. Motels, as I understand them, rent out rooms. They don’t sell them.”

For a moment, Dean wished his head _had_ actually hit the tub.

“How would you know about motels?”

The question seemed to dishearten Castiel. He squeezed his eyes shut and Dean could see he was putting considerable effort in finding the answer. Obviously, the attempt was futile.

“I don’t know,” he finally admitted, sounding miserable. “I don’t know how I got in here.”

“Do you know who I am?”

The ever-present crease on Castiel’s forehead deepened.

“You look familiar.”

There was a spark of recognition in his impossibly blue eyes Dean found strangely comforting. Even if Castiel wasn’t really there, he still was the one who gripped him tight and raised him from perdition. And that had to account for something beyond the limited range of common sense and logic, _right_?

“In case you’ve been wondering about that: Yes, you have threatened me before.”

Castiel's head tilted at a painful-looking angle.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Dean added quickly. “It was… a reference.”

“But I _have_ threatened you?”

It was worded as a question, but Dean thought there was more to it than that.

“Sort of,” he replied cautiously, remembering how Castiel had proclaimed himself God. The image was hard to retain, though.

Crawling out of the tub, slipping, swaying and tripping, he didn’t look celestial at all. In fact, he looked like an ordinary drunk who’d fallen asleep in the bathroom.

Dean didn’t lend him a helping hand, just stood back and watched as Castiel struggled to keep his balance. There was something distinctly graceless about his movements, and he almost laughed at the irony of it.

When the angel had finally made it out, he immediately crowded Dean’s personal space. And the hunter could have sworn it had nothing to do with the size of the bathroom.

“I guess I’m sorry,” Castiel said, “about that… _threatening-thing_ , I mean.”

The honesty in his voice reminded Dean of a child’s. His stomach clenched and he unconsciously moved backwards until the sink blocked his way. He felt trapped, but Castiel, sneaky bastard that he was, didn’t budge.

“You realize you should be sorry for a lot of things, right?” Dean snapped.

Having Castiel so close again had flipped the switch, and now he found he couldn’t hold back anymore. Who cared if he was actually there? If the angel was _his_ hallucination, he could at least put him to good use and unload some of his pent-up frustration.

“You fucked up epically,” he yelled. “And when I say epically, I mean Godzilla-sized dimensions. Or King Kong standing on Godzilla’s shoulders, with Mothra sitting on his head.”

Castiel stared. Sam pounded on the door, requesting Dean to open it. The faucet was dripping, and the rhythmic sound turned into the straw that broke the camel’s back. Lunging forward, he brought his fist hard against Castiel’s jaw. Or, at least he tried. The force of the punch made him tumble forward, right through Castiel and against the bath-tub. It was a strange feeling, like walking through an icy veil buzzing with electricity. Dean immediately shrugged back, dumbfounded.

“Son of a bitch!”

And then he hit him again and again, his fists flying through the air, trying to get hold of whatever energy constituted Castiel’s makeshift body. It was one of the weirdest things he’d ever felt, like punching a waterfall, but it still felt right. Comforting even. And so he went on and on until he was gasping with exhaustion.

Castiel didn’t fight back. He only stood there like a man-shaped punching bag, letting Dean pummel him with all the stoic equanimity of their very first encounter. Only when one of Dean’s fists accidentally strayed towards his solar plexus, he shrugged back a little, trying to escape the hunter’s reach.

“Could you please stop this?” he said, sounding irked. “It feels unpleasant.”

“How can it feel unpleasant, for Heaven’s sake?” Finally, Dean stopped his futile exertions. He threw his hands up in defeat and resisted the urge to shove Castiel back against the ugly green shower curtain. “You’re dead!”

“Dead?” Castiel asked.

“Dead?” it echoed back from their room, where Sam was apparently following the conversation.

“Dead,” Dean hissed behind clenched teeth, nerves tethering on the edge. ” _Dead_ dead. Like gone. _Poof_ , exploded, dissolved into a lake of goo, drowned. Whatever you prefer. But you’re most definitely _dead_.”

“Alright, I’m gonna kick in that door now,” Sam announced.

“That would be malicious mischief.” Castiel frowned.

And Dean wished there was at least some method to his madness.


	3. Chapter 2

In the end, all property of _Windmill Suites Motel_ remained unharmed. It wasn’t as if Dean actually wanted to come out of the bathroom, but then, he didn’t have much of a choice. Castiel—or Castiel’s ghost—seemed neither inclined nor able to leave him alone, and Dean figured a night spent in the tub would kill his back. So he decided he could just as well get out, throw himself on the nearest bed and pull the covers over his head.

It only worked in theory, of course. Mostly because Sam happened to be in the same room, which made it awfully hard to ignore all his whining about the hardships of being a good brother to an alcoholic. When Sam pulled the blanket from his body, Dean snapped.

“Leave it, Sam! I didn’t even have a beer!”

“I’m not saying you’re drunk or anything. But you have to admit that you’ve been a little off the rocker, ever since Cas died.“

Dean winced, gaze traveling across the room until he’d found what he was looking for. Castiel was sitting on a narrow dresser in the corner next to the television, clearly oblivious to the fact Sam was talking about him.

“Jesus!” Dean groaned.

Ah, _well_. Using the Lord’s name in vain still seemed to provoke a reaction from the angel, even if it was hardly more than a slightly annoyed frown.

“YOU’ve been off the rocker, ever since Cas ripped down your wall.”

“But I’m not pretending he’s around and talking to me,” Sam deadpanned.

“I’m not–“

He stopped mid-sentence, realizing he’d been busy staring at Castiel.

“You think he’s over there, right?” Sam asked, pointing towards the dresser.

Dean rolled his eyes.

“He _is_ over there,” he insisted, gesturing towards the angel. “Cas, please do me a favor and honor my brother with your ghostly presence.”

Castiel scowled. Other than that, nothing happened.

“Can you see him now?”

Dean eyed his brother expectantly, but the look on his face was answer enough. Sam clearly thought he’d finally lost it.

“Listen, Dean. I know you and Cas were—” His hands performed a vaguely circular motion Dean failed to interpret. “He was my friend, too. Okay? He wasn’t himself anymore when he hurt me, and I believed him when he said he wanted to make it up to me. To you, Dean.”

Dean noticed Castiel looked interested now, even though he still tried to feign indifference.

“You may not believe me,” Sam went on, unperturbed by the supernatural presence in the room, “but I mourned his death. He’s dead, Dean. It was cruel, and untimely, but he still is. And I am—”

“You’re not listening, damn it!” Dean growled. “I am not saying the bastard’s alive. I’m saying he’s a ghost.”

“He was an angel. I very much doubt they can become restless spirits. Restless graces. Whatever.”

Resigned, Sam walked over to his bag to take out the laptop. It was then Dean was struck by an idea.

“Get the EMF,” he said.

“What?”

“You heard me. Take out the EMF and see for yourself.”

When Dean didn’t show the slightest inclination to leave his place on the mattress, Sam sighed and started rummaging through his brother’s possessions until he’d found what used to be a broken Walkman. He switched on the EMF and went around the room, eyes glued to the device’s makeshift display. Dean couldn’t help noticing Castiel was studying his actions curiously, as though he could not quite place what was going on around him.

 _Perfect_! So apparently, he was an amnesiac ghost who thought his hapless victims nuts.

When Sam approached the corner in which Castiel was looming, Dean sat up and held his breath.

“And?” he asked, unable to bear the tension.

Sam stopped, checked the EMF, and frowned. He made another round, this time including the bathroom, but from the look on his face, Dean could tell the results were not exactly to his liking.

“Dean.” When he looked down upon his brother, his expression was a disquieting mixture of pity and fear. “There’s absolutely nothing in here.”

“Give me the EMF!” Dean demanded, then got up and ripped the device from his brother’s hands. He switched it on and strode towards Castiel.

“Is it broken?” Castiel asked curiously.

“It better be,” Dean pressed out behind clenched teeth.

“You’re doing it again.” Sam observed dryly. “You’re talking to _him_ , aren’t you?”

Dean wanted to punch himself. Well, more than anything, he wanted to punch Castiel. But since that didn’t seem to work, punching something— _anything_ —felt like a tremendously good idea.

“Fine! So maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m an alcoholic on the verge of insanity,” Dean spat. “But you know what: If I’m just going through withdrawal, a beer will probably solve this.”

And with that, he went over to the small fridge and took out a beer.

“Dean—”

Ignoring his brother, he opened the bottle and downed half of its contents in one impressive gulp.

“Shut up, Sammy. I’m just trying to work with your theory.”

He flung himself down on the mattress again, stuffed several cushions in his back, and switched on the television. He spent several minutes channel surfing, closely monitored by both Sam and Castiel. He took another swig from his bottle, adamant on ignoring both of them. The angel was getting a slightly frustrated look, judging from what Dean could see out of the corner of his eye. _Screw you_ , Dean thought. He found a program on the mating cycle of the naked mole rat and left it on, just to annoy his brother. Other than Sam Winchester, those ugly ass rodents at least had some sort of sex life.

“The naked mole rat is native to sub-Saharan Africa—,” the voice announced.

“That would be Eastern Africa,” Castiel corrected dismissively. “The Damaraland mole rat native to Southern Africa is a related species, but—”

Dean pressed a pillow over his ears. It failed to muffle Castiel’s lecture on small African mammals, but at least provided a visual barrier between himself and the annoying know-it-all ghost.

Sam shot him a dismissive glance and set out to stride across the room. Dean held on tight, expecting him to rip the pillow away, but his brother just grabbed the half-empty beer bottle and took a sip.

“I‘m gonna go through the news reports again,” he announced, switching on his laptop.

“Need some sleep,” Dean mumbled, then added something about driving all day and shotgun being lazybones.

He turned off the TV and settled in between the sheets. He didn’t bother taking off his clothes, mostly because deep down, he knew he was just putting on a show. It was obvious Sam thought the same, but at least he went back to his research and left him in peace for a while. The same could not be said for Castiel, of course.

As an angel, he'd lacked the most basic understanding of human interaction, turned up at the most inopportune moment and left when he was needed most. As a ghost, however, he was infinitely worse. After five minutes, he started fidgeting on his vantage point atop the dresser. After ten minutes, he tried to regain Dean’s attention by spamming him with all kinds of unwanted facts about the areal distribution of the naked mole rat. After fifteen minutes, he decided he’d had enough of being ignored. Frustrated, he grabbed the nearest object he could reach (a dirty toothbrush cup) and tossed it against the wall. It shattered right above Dean’s bed, showering him in a million little shards. A hideous painting of a herd of grazing ponies followed suit, missing his head by less than an inch.

“Did you see that?” Dean yelled at his brother.

“Seems like the picture fell off the wall,” Sam said, shrugging. “You okay?”

“Of course I’m not! That bastard threw a glass at me!”

“I didn’t aim at you,” Castiel said. “And you can blame yourself for ignoring me. I didn’t exactly choose to be here!”

 _Then fuck off, for Heaven’s sake_ , Dean wanted to shout, but caught Sam’s worried gaze just in time to bite his tongue. He slumped forward and rubbed his face, finding he was actually tired.

“Since you’re awake now anyways, do you have a moment?” Sam asked.

Grateful for the offered distraction, Dean nodded.

“So all those couples were happy together,” Sam summed up, still staring at the screen, “Keira and Benny Furlong, Rachel and Frank McInnes, Barbara Melrose and Bob Dixon, and Allen Frings and Tucker Lee.”

“Allen and Tucker? At least our monster’s one for equality.”

“Dean!” Sam turned on his chair, looking openly offended.

Dean smirked.

“I am quite indifferent to sexual orientation,” Castiel announced, and Dean found it increasingly hard to ignore him.

Sam looked worried again, but chose to stay on topic for the sake of their latest case.

 _Bless your professionalism_ , Dean thought and started picking up the shards that were littering his bed covers.

“Several of the articles I have here quote their friends and family. Relationship-wise, all of the affected couples appeared to be fine. Rachel and Frank were known to be very religious, and Frank considered divorce a sin.”

“That explains why he preferred to murder his wife when he discovered he had the hots for his neighbor’s daughter.”

“He stabbed her with a kitchen knife in a household supply store.” Sam lowered his gaze and focused on his brother. “During business hours. Doesn’t sound like a particularly well-thought out plan to me.”

Dean sighed. “So what’s your theory? Because I’m sure you have one.”

“I’m not sure, to be honest.” Sam stared at his screen and randomly scrolled down what looked like a text document. “None of my research seems to add up.”

“Humans!” To Dean’s distress, Castiel jumped down from the dresser and started pacing the room. “Obviously, it must be a cupid.”

“A cupid?” Dean asked, letting his guard slip for just a second.

Enough for Sam to pick up on it, of course.

“Why would you think it’s a cupid?” he asked, stupefied.

“I didn’t say it’s a cupid, I—,” Dean began, but immediately realized his mistake. “Alright then,” he sighed, striving for damage control. “I think it’s a cupid because—”

“Among God’s creations, cupids are the only ones that may interfere with human notions of romantic attraction.”

Trust Castiel to be the most helpful creature in the whole universe if it included him being a smart ass.

“Cupids are the only fuckers I can think of that we’ve seen messing with people’s love lives,” Dean translated.

Sam lifted a questioning eyebrow, apparently bewildered by his brother’s sudden brainwave.

“Now there’s a thought,” he admitted reluctantly. “I’ll look into it some more, I guess.”

“Where’s the point in that? I already told you it’s a cupid.”

Castiel’s ghost sounded pissed, but Dean’s altogether satisfying victory over his overzealous know-it-all brother was definitely worth the loathsome presence. In fact, it was such a perfect ending to an otherwise unbearable day that he decided to go to bed.

And hope that when he woke up, Castiel was gone.

 

That night, Dean had the weirdest of dreams.

He dreamt that some time in the middle of the night, Castiel’s ghost sat down by the side of his bed and rested his head against the mattress.

“I know you don’t want me here and I can understand that,” he said, his voice full sadness. “I don’t want to be here either. But when I’m not with you, it’s as if I don’t exist.”

And if that wasn’t the cheesiest thing he’d ever heard anyone say, then Dean didn’t know the meaning of ‘cheesy’. But _hey_ , it was a dream, so why not join in the mood?

“I miss you, too, Cas.”

Since none of it was real anyways, he reached out until his fingers brushed over Castiel’s hair.

The angel made some sort of sound that could have been a contented sigh or a sign of exasperation, but Dean was already busy dreaming something else. It possibly involved a rainbow-colored slinky.


	4. Chapter 3

When he woke in the morning, Dean was pleased to find that Castiel was gone. Sounds emanating from the bathroom suggested Sam was already busy showering, and by the light streaming in through the still half-closed curtains, he could tell it was going to be a sunny winter's day. Just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, he scanned the room again, ensuring the ghost wasn’t hiding underneath Sam’s bed, but Castiel was nowhere to be seen.

With a heartfelt yawn, Dean reached beneath the covers to scratch his belly when his fingers brushed against something weird. It felt like an electrical field, or a body of cold air. Curiously, he let his hand hang off the mattress and felt at it again.

_Weird._

The feeling was familiar, almost like yesterday, when—

“Cas!”

Suddenly, he was wide-awake. He sat up and stared down at the angel crouching at his bedside. He looked— _sleepy_?—and quite definitely pissed.

“Stop that, please! It feels unpleasant!”

If Dean didn’t know better, he’d have thought Castiel had actually been sleeping. His hair looked worse than usual, and his eyes were still half-closed as though he failed to open them properly.

There were so many things wrong with this image Dean didn’t even know where to start: For one thing, angels didn’t sleep. Then, to the best of his knowledge, ghosts didn’t sleep either. So how was it even possible a ghost-angel was sitting on the floor next to his bed, looking all disgruntled because Dean had woken him up by groping his body-less form?

“I apologize for troubling you,” Castiel sighed, rubbing his eyes, “but as I told you yesterday, we seem to have a connection of some sort.”

Groaning, Dean turned onto his stomach and buried his face in between the cushions. But of course, Castiel wouldn’t let it drop.

“But then… tonight you said you missed me. Why is that?”

_Oh holymotherfuckin’batmanshit!_

Dean brought his fist down hard against the mattress. Unfortunately, it didn’t even hurt half as much as he’d have liked it to. Frustrated, he turned his head and glared at Castiel.

“I didn’t say anything of that sort, okay? And believe me, after all the shit you pulled, I’d rather run around missing Lucifer than you.”

Within seconds, the angel’s expression went from confused to openly hurt. _Now wasn’t that great?_ The kicked-puppy-look seemed to be such a fundamental part of Castiel’s personality it had even made it past death and amnesia. Dean wanted to say something meaningful about the circle of life and the general hardships of human existence when Sam chose to interrupt the scene.

“Dean, are you—,” he began, dripping wet and with nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips.

It wasn’t hard to guess what had driven him out of the bathroom: He’d probably heard Dean’s voice talking to Castiel and immediately prepared for the worst. So better not give him time to draw his own conclusions again.

“I don’t know ‘bout you,” Dean drawled, turning away from Castiel, “but I’m starving. And I need some caffeine. Let’s head into town and see if we can find a decent place to crash for breakfast.”

 

“Dave’s Diner” was by no means a decent place. But then, it was the only place available in all of Surprise that served anything remotely resembling breakfast, so Dean supposed it was alright. He ordered a black coffee without milk and tried his best to ignore Castiel. The angel was being as irritating as ever, busy crowding Dean’s personal space and sharing random thoughts on whatever topic he tried to discuss with his brother.

“Dean, we really need to talk about this,” Sam finally said, sounding careworn.

_Not again!_

Dean rolled his eyes and looked away, just in time to see a man in office attire leap at a woman who’d been waiting at the bus stop outside the diner. She turned her head, a spark of recognition in her eyes, but her to-be-smile immediately turned into an expression of utter terror.

“Oh my God, Sam! Look!”

“Dean, I’m not gonna fall for the purple elephant again!”

Luckily, his misgivings didn't keep him from sparing a glance, just to be sure. Within seconds, he was up and out of the door, grabbing the man from behind and yanking him backwards, away from the screaming woman. Meanwhile, a number of people had assembled on the other side of the road, eying the scene curiously. In the diner, the few guests present were turning on their seats and stared out of the window with thinly veiled excitement.

“She needs to die!” Dean heard the man yell while Sam was pressing him against the nearest wall. “I cannot love her anymore."

The woman who'd been the goal of his attack started to cry, sobbing something about “honey”,

“Steve”, and “you don't mean that”.

“Run!” Sam called, but she didn't budge, arms hugging her handbag as if she was holding on to it for dear life.

“I don’t love her, and I need her gone,” Steve—if that was actually his name—screamed and struggled against Sam’s iron grip. Dean knew from experience that there were few people that stood a chance against Gigantor, but desperation and whatever kind of outer influence were giving the man almost superhuman strength.

“Do something!” Sam mouthed at him through the windowpane, struggling to keep the raving man at bay. Dean was already on the verge of rushing to his brother’s side when Castiel’s outstretched arm stopped him.

“The cupid,” he said, scanning the room, “he's here!”

And then, he started chanting something Dean was sure was neither English nor Latin.

“ _Yolcam lonshi pir_ ,” he recited, “ _zacare ca od zamran, odo cicle qaa_.”

He looked very serious and intent, and Dean almost wanted to believe he’d suddenly mojo up and save the day. Which wasn’t happening, of course. Sam’s looks were getting more desperate by the second, and Dean figured this wasn’t the time to consider the feelings of a dead, amnesiac angel.

“Stop that nonsense,” he finally yelled, “what are you doing anyways?”

“I am forcing it to reveal itself. Now let me—“

Dean was shoved aside by a hand that felt strangely human, lost his balance and crashed back onto the seat.

“ _Zorge, lap zirdo noco_ ,” Castiel went on, and Dean could see he was becoming slightly irritated. Suddenly, he was struck by a thought.

“Wait, Cas. It probably can't hear you.”

“Why can't—“

“Drop it, Cas!”

Dean noticed some of the gawkers were eying him curiously, probably trying to figure out whom he was talking to. Well, if things worked out the way he’d planned to, they were to witness an even stranger performance.

“We need to summon the bastard, so I suggest you say the whole thing again. Only this time, I'm gonna repeat the words.”

Castiel seemed confused, but nodded slowly.

“ _Yolcam lonshi pir_ ,” he started again.

“ _Yoclam shilo rip_ ,” Dean repeated duteously.

“ _Zacare ca od zamran_.”

“ _Zacare od ac qumran_.”

“No no no no!” Castiel shook his head in frustration. “You’re getting it all wrong!”

“For Christ's sake, you have to do it more slowly, Cas! I don't speak Gibberish or whatever language this is.”

“It’s Enochian,” Castiel snapped, “you should show some respect to the language of the Lord!”

Dean wanted to return something witty, but a glance at Sam and the crying woman told him it probably wasn’t the time. So he sighed and lifted a hand in defeat.

“Alright, listen. We’ll do it word by word. You’ll say it very slowly, and I’m gonna repeat it.”

Castiel gave him a look that seemed to say: _Okay, but only because I am an angel and taking pity on the mentally retarded is part of my job description._

Dean wanted to punch him hard, but settled for gnashing his teeth and signaling Castiel to get on with it.

“ _Yolcam_ ,” the angel said obediently, if a little clipped.

“ _Yolcam_.”

“ _Lonshi pir_.”

“ _Lonshi pir._ ”

From there, reciting the spell was merely a matter of time, though, judging from the look on his face, Castiel was still unhappy with Dean’s pronunciation.

In the end, it didn’t matter.

“ _Hoath iaida_ ,” Dean repeated, and while he was still struggling with the final syllable, a small, round-faced man appeared in the middle of the diner. He was wearing nothing but a loincloth that barely hid anything, least of all the impressive girth of his belly.

Those present simultaneously retreated backwards, though not quickly enough to escape the cupid’s infamous “handshake”. Dean ducked just in time, but failed to save a dumbstruck youth from the cherub’s embrace.

“Hey, you!” Dean yelled, adamant on catching the creature’s attention.

It worked, but unfortunately earned him the greeting he’d been busy trying to avoid. Pressed against the cupid’s sweaty body, Dean almost envied Castiel for his invisibility, though a glance at the angel told him Castiel was well on his guard.

“Leave me be,” Dean snarled behind clench teeth and finally managed to free himself.

“Whatever’s going on here, you have to stop it immediately,” he said, addressing the cherub before he went on greeting the onlookers.

When the chubby angel shot him a confused look, Dean gestured towards his brother who was still struggling with Steve. The cupid tilted his head in a way that almost reminded Dean of Castiel, then lifted one eyebrow as if he didn't quite get Dean’s problem.

“I can't!” he stated matter-of-factly. “That man is destined to be with another. With his present mother-in-law, to be more precise.”

Dean couldn't help noticing how smug the cherub sounded.

“Says who?”

The question seemed to cause an existential crisis in the celestial messenger. He looked quite unangelic, nagging on his lower lip and staring at the floor as if he was avoiding Dean’s gaze.

“Well, I… I don't really know,” he finally admitted. “It's just—“

Suddenly, he looked crestfallen.

“So apparently, Heaven is still in chaos.” Dean spun around, surprised to find Castiel looking back at him. “At least the division handing out orders for cherubs. You see, we... angels of all ranks have a hard time coping if they do not receive proper orders.”

“Heaven? Angels? So you remember—”

Dean stared at Castiel in bewilderment, but before the angel could answer, something caught his attention.

“Watch out!” he shouted, but it was already too late. The cupid had taken advantage of Dean's momentary distraction and pulled out a dagger. He lunged himself at the hunter and pushed him down onto the stained linoleum floor. Dean was quick enough to grab the cupid's fleshy wrist, but the bastard was stronger than he looked. For a moment, the two of them were rolling on the floor, the cupid trying to press his weapon against Dean's throat and Dean trying to stay clear of the shimmering blade. The hunter knew their fight could hardly have lasted more than a minute when he felt himself drifting dangerously close to losing. The cupid was not nearly as powerful as Castiel all powered up, but he was still a supernatural creature with considerably more strength than a man.

“Cas!” Dean gasped when the blade scraped across his collarbone, remembering Sam was still busy with the lovesick dude. He pushed with the last ounce of his strength, but it wasn't enough to shake off the cupid. He threw a desperate glance to where he thought Castiel was standing, but the angel seemed either unable or unwilling to interfere.

 _And that's how Dean Winchester died by the hands of a chubby dude in diapers_ , he thought blearily when the cupid finally managed to free his wrist and pulled away to ram the knife into Dean's chest. The hunter squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the final blow. And suddenly, there was considerable weight crushing his chest, pushing the air from his lungs, but his skin remained unmarred.

When he dared to look, he was staring past the cupid's shoulder and right at Castiel, who'd thrown himself on top of the guy. The dagger had been knocked from the cupid's hand and slithered several inches across the floor.

"Get the dagger," Castiel gasped, then jumped to his feet and left Dean to struggle with the cupid.

"How did you do that?" the cupid asked, obviously even more confused than he'd been moments ago. Unfortunately, though, he didn't move one limb off Dean, which made it impossible for the hunter to reach out for the weapon.

"For Heaven's sake, can't one of you people get the dagger?" he yelled at the bystanders, but none of the other guests seemed inclined to go anywhere near the fighting pair. After several long moments, the cupid had regained enough of his composure to reach for the blade, burying Dean's face in the soft meat of his upper arm.

"Ughhh," Dean moaned, unable to form a coherent sentence.

And then, all of a sudden, the cupid was gone, and Dean found himself lying on the dirty floor of a rundown diner, gasping for air. And there, right next to a blackboard listing the daily offers, he could see the crouching form of the ghostly angel of Thursday, still holding a piece of chalk. Across "Two plain pancakes with your choice of three strips of bacon", a strange sigil had been drawn, and Dean could only guess this was what had sent the cupid back to wherever it had come from. Castiel stared at him for a long moment, his eyes impossibly blue and narcotic. "Dean," he whispered.

Then, the chalk slipped right through his translucent fingers.

Dean had barely had time to catch his breath when Sam came rushing through the door.

"Oh my God, Dean! Are you alright?"

"Do you believe me now?" Dean pointed towards the blackboard displaying the sigil.

"It… it just appeared. I saw it," a girl squeaked.

Suddenly, everyone in the room seemed busy convincing each other that what they'd seen was real.

Sam extended a hand to help Dean to his feet, but the only thing he had eyes for was Castiel. None of them said a word, but Castiel's gaze conveyed everything Dean needed to know.

"Dean," he repeated, as if the name was part of the incantation he’d recited earlier.

Dean barely noticed when he was yanked to his feet, too caught in the sudden realization that the creature who’d just saved his ass was indeed Castiel. Not a strange parody of the angel he’d once known, but the actual thing. And he looked just as shocked about his present state as Dean had been when he’d first encountered him outside the motel.

“Dean!” This time, it was Sam’s voice calling out his name. “Are you hurt?”

Slowly, Dean forced his eyes to look at his brother who still held on to his arm as if he was keeping him upright.

“‘Course I am!”

With a little more force than necessary, he freed himself from his Sam’s grip.

“Everything's okay out there?” he asked, nodding towards the couple still standing outside the diner.

“Technically, I guess it’s over,” Sam replied thoughtfully. “Though I’m sure that for the poor guy, this won’t be over for a long time.”

Outside, Steve was staring at his wife in disbelief. He probably had no idea what had been going on, let alone what had caused his sudden infatuation with his mother-in-law.

The people in the diner still seemed undecided whether to stare at Dean, or at the blackboard where the sigil had appeared out of nowhere. Sam gave his brother a questioning look, but Dean just shrugged. He casually strolled back to the table and took a sip from his coffee, surprised to find it was still warm. Despite everything, he suddenly found he was almost starving. So when the waitress appeared behind the counter, Dean gave her his most enticing smile and purred:

“Could I get the special please? You know, that thing on the blackboard. Two plain pancakes with your choice of three strips of bacon.”

It turned out to be a fairly decent breakfast, after all.


	5. Chapter 4

Back at the motel, Dean almost wished Castiel was still amnesiac. Whatever relief he'd felt had soon been replaced by a nagging anxiety on how to handle the situation. It was clear Castiel remembered everything. Not only who he was, but also the mess he’d caused, and how he'd ripped away Sam’s wall. Faced with the enormity of his crimes, Castiel seemed equally at loss on how to react. During breakfast in “Dave's Diner”, the angel had been mostly silent, eyes cast to the table’s surface. Only sometimes, Dean couldn’t help noticing a look straying towards himself or Sam, usually accompanied by his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. Clearly, Castiel wasn’t comfortable in his own skin.

 _He’d better not be_ , part of Dean thought. And yet, he found his anger considerably easier to deal with than _that other thing_ he felt. He didn’t really want to dwell on it, but feeling relief at the return of a friend turned enemy—an enemy who’d incidentally gone on a killing spree—was wrong on so many levels he didn’t even know where to begin. So he’d eaten his breakfast in silence, only throwing the occasional remark at Sam, who was curiously eying the sigil Castiel had drawn on the blackboard.

The presence of other guests had provided a convenient excuse for putting off the inevitable heart to heart until they were back at the motel. But now that they were alone again, there was no use in waiting any longer. Even Sam pointed out as much. He’d obviously come to terms with the fact that Dean wasn’t crazy, after all.

Of course, this didn’t mean he had an actual idea how to deal with the situation either.

“You know,” he said, reaching for the car keys, “I think you and Cas should have some time on your own to… well, talk things over.”

“And where will you be going in the meantime? Seems like our case kinda solved itself this morning.”

“I could… uh… dunno, maybe go to the library. Or watch a movie.”

None of it sounded very convincing, but Dean didn’t try to stop him. To be honest, he was more than a little surprised at how well Sam had handled the news of Castiel's return.

_Because, come on, how would you feel if the guy that messed with your brains somehow came back from the dead to haunt your brother?_

“You sure you’ll be alright?” he asked, sounding worried.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sam smiled, and Dean wondered how he made it look so damn genuine. “Have fun, guys.” Waving, he put the keys in his pocket and left the room.

“I don’t think he’s comfortable having me around,” Castiel remarked as soon as the door slammed shut behind Sam.

“No, I mean—”

And then, Dean let himself get carried away by all his pent-up anger and frustration. He even forgot about Castiel's current state, whether he was a ghost, an angel, or a different entity altogether. It didn't even matter how he'd escaped the Leviathan, the only thing on Dean's mind was how he'd hurt Sam.

“He’s probably just overflowing with happiness,” he snarled. “Wanted to get rid of that wall anyways, so he could rejoice in all those happy memories of being tortured by your brother. Guess he just went off to buy you some flowers.”

Castiel usually didn't get sarcasm, but he rarely acted on the defensive side, either. It therefore came as a real surprise to Dean when he stepped back until he stood pressed against the wall.

“I hadn’t meant it to be permanent,” he whispered, unable to look Dean in the eye.

It didn't escape the hunter how miserable and broken Castiel looked. In fact, he looked like death warmed over, which was probably closer to the truth than he wanted to let on. Dean already felt his anger fading into thin air when he forced himself to remember Sam's distress, how he'd been thrashing and screaming, trapped by the Devil in his own head. For the time being, it was enough to suppress the growing urge to approach Castiel with outstretched arms and pull him into a hug.

“Well, you shouldn’t have done it in the first place then.” He took a deep breath. “And since we’re at it: Maybe you should have skipped your little soul dinner with Crowley, too.”

He almost felt relieved when finally, Castiel looked up, a strange gleam in his eyes. Something inside the angel had snapped, replacing guilt and misery with an emotion Dean found it much easier to deal with: Anger.

“And done what? Watch Raphael bring on another Apocalypse? Nullify everything you and Sam had been fighting for?”

“Don’t make it sound like we’re to blame for your shit, okay? If you’d listened to us in the first place, none of this would have happened.”

“So—you still believe I did this for myself? You think this—” He gestured at his borrowed body, “is something I wanted for myself?”

“I don’t know, Cas.”

It then occurred to him it was true. He didn't know what Castiel wanted for himself, had never asked him or spent much thought on the obvious fact that the angel had come a long way from the celestial warrior who’d pulled him from Hell.

“I don’t know you anymore,” he finally admitted. “And I’m wondering if I ever really did.”

“I see.” Castiel's voice was icy. “I am—I think I’m beginning to understand now.”

He took a step towards Dean, hands balled into fists, and for a second, the hunter thought Castiel was going to punch him.

“What?” Dean barked, adamant on standing his ground. “How you got out of that lake? How you lost your mind? How you became a ghost? What, Cas? Because I certainly DON’T understand what’s going on here.”

“To answer your question: I believe that this—,” he ran his hand right through a hideously colored lampshade, emphasizing his ghostly state, “is some sort of punishment.”

“It better be! You sure as Hell deserve it.”

The words left a bitter sting on Dean's tongue, but he didn't know what else to say.

“I do,” Castiel said quietly. “But for you, it's about something else entirely, isn't it? It’s not about the things that I've done: The people I killed, or how I murdered my own family in cold blood. For you, it’s only ever about obedience. When you asked me to defy my Father and family, what you actually meant was: ‘Stop taking their orders and start following mine.’”

Dean's mouth fell open, but nothing came out.

“Have you ever wondered about me, who I’d become and what I wanted for myself?” Castiel pressed on mercilessly. “I wanted peace, Dean. Maybe not exactly what you’d expect from a soldier, but there you have it. But you know what? More than anything, I wanted you to be happy. Why else would I go for Sam? Why would I stand up to Raphael?”

“But why the lies?”

Dean swallowed hard, eyes burning with the threat of tears.

“Why doing it all behind my back? Where have you been during that year?” His hands balled into fists while he rasped the words out. “I needed you, Cas.”

He knew the situation had gotten completely out of hand when Castiel's form suddenly blurred before his eyes.

“I was there, Dean.” The angel whispered. He didn't even look angry anymore. Just… _sad_.

“All the time. But you seemed happy with that woman and her boy. And I’d already asked so much of you. You’d finally found peace, the thing I wanted most in this world. Who was I to take it away from you?”

 _I wasn't happy,_ Dean wanted to scream. _Sam was gone, and you were an archangel, and I missed you so much. The both of you._

But his voice failed him yet again, and Castiel took his silence entirely the wrong way.

“Now you tell me I was wrong,” he said, sounding defeated. “Of course I was! I became a stranger to my own kind, I defied those who loved and cared about me. Balthazar, who was as close a brother to me as you are to Sam.”

Castiel's voice broke, and it felt like a blow to Dean's guts, understanding how little he'd truly known about the angel.

“I killed him, Dean!”

The silence in the room threatened to crash them both, tingling with the promise of comfort, absolution even, but Dean found he couldn't give either.

“I did horrible things. Unforgivable things. And if this is my punishment, there’s no doubt I deserve it and worse.”

Castiel sounded as if he'd carve the flesh from his own bones, only to ease the pain.

“But I thought that among all people, you’d understand why I did it. That sometimes, you need to make sacrifices for the things you believe in, and to keep those you love safe.”

Dean realized Castiel was pleading now, but what for, he could not–-would not–-say. It was too big, like all the things the angel had ever asked of him, and Dean bit his lips to hold back the sob forming in his throat.

It was then Castiel's features grew hard, completely bereft of all the emotion they'd held only moments ago.

“But then again, I should have known that Dean Winchester’s standards apply to no one but himself. He may save the world, but in turn is not worth being saved.”

His eyes bore into Dean's, painfully blue and dangerous.

“Or loved, for that matter.”

Unable to endure the tension, Dean finally turned away.

“Oh for God’s sake, stop being so goddamn righteous,” he snapped. “This isn’t about me.”

“Of course it is. This has only ever been about you.”

Dean couldn't help but notice the bitterness in Castiel's voice.

“If it was about me, you’d understand how I deserve this and worse. Not because I betrayed you, but because I betrayed myself. Everything I was fighting for, all I was…”

Suddenly, Dean found he couldn't breathe anymore. He wanted nothing more than to get away. From Castiel, from the ugly-ass motel room; but most of all, he wanted to get away from himself and all the images his mind was suddenly forcing down upon him.

_Sam on the floor, screaming. Castiel, cold and indifferent, Castiel, pleading for his trust, Castiel, telling him he wasn't a hammer, Castiel, and Sam, and Cas…_

“I’m not going to listen to this anymore.” He groaned, his head spinning. “I'm out!”

And with that, he stormed out of the room and into the afternoon cold. It didn’t occur to him until much later that he’d actually forgotten to bring a coat.

 

Thankfully, Castiel stayed out of sight while Dean strode down the road, away from the motel. Only a few blocks away, he found a bar that was already open, despite the fact it was only late afternoon. No other guests were present, except for two men wearing tent-sized lumberjack shirts and baseball caps pulled deep into their faces. They didn’t look up when Dean strode through the door, and neither did the bartender who was busy polishing glasses with a stained piece of cloth. Dean didn’t bother with a greeting. He pulled out a stool from underneath the bar and sat down, ordering a beer.

The bartender huffed out an annoyed sound, but finally set aside the rag to draw his guest a drink. Dean gulped down the glass in one go, then ordered another. After four beers, he decided it was time to get thoroughly wasted and ordered whiskey on the rocks, savoring the sensation of the liquor burning down his throat. Once or twice, he scanned the room for Castiel’s looming presence, but though he knew the angel had to be around, he was nowhere to be seen.

Dean kept on drinking, oblivious to the other guests gradually filling the bar, but finally had to admit to himself that no amount of alcohol could wash away the bitter taste in his mouth.

“Damn you,” he ground out behind clenched teeth, not sure whether he was talking to a line of Tequila shots, or to Castiel.

The bartender was eyeing him suspiciously, but Dean pretended not to see him. When a blond woman sat down on the stool beside him, he decided that if burying himself in alcohol didn’t help, a fine pair of tits might still do the job. He was surprised at how easy he found it to keep the slur at bay. _And finally, all the training pays off_ , he noted to himself, then continued to chat the girl up. He couldn’t really tell whether she was actually pretty, with her face blurring before his eyes and his gaze repeatedly straying towards her bosom, but he supposed he’d seen worse. Besides, it had to account for something that she was still paying attention, despite the fact she must have noticed he was as drunk as a skunk.

“So, Lucy—”

“Lauren,” she corrected him with a good-natured chuckle.

“Alright, Lu-Lauren. So how’s—”

Distracted, his gaze trailed over her shoulder and towards the far end of the bar. And there, on a stool right beside the window, sat Castiel. He leaned on the counter, head resting in his palm, and studied Dean with the sullen expression of a bad-tempered vulture. He looked perfectly normal amidst all the other guests in cheap black suits that seemed to come here after work. If it hadn’t been for the fact only Dean could see him, there would have been nothing remarkable about his presence.

“So Lucy,” he tried again, concentrating on the soft swell of her breasts. “How’s Surprise?”

“It’s Lauren,” she said, and Dean noticed she was beginning to sound annoyed. “And I’ve already told you twice that I don’t know much about Surprise because I’m only here for tonight. I’m attending a meeting at the congress center.”

“Would you like another drink?” he asked quickly. “I think I could do with another Bourbon.”

Though he didn’t look up, he could feel Castiel’s accusing gaze resting heavily upon him.

“Fuckin’ creeper,” he hissed.

“What did you just say?” Lauren asked, irritated.

“Nothing, I—”

_It’s just that there’s an angel sitting over there. You see—or well, you probably can’t ‘cause he’s a ghost… Anyway, we just had a little fall-out over him striving for world domination. And right now, he’s givin’ me one of his freakin’ stares. Oh, and he’s actually tapping his fingers on the counter. Must’ve learned that from Sam..._

Dean hoped he’d said none of it. But either way, the blonde seemed taken aback by his sudden lack of courtesy and reached for her handbag.

“Listen,” she said. “I think I have to go now. Long drive tomorrow.”

She might have said something else, possibly involving the well-meant advice to call it a day and go to bed, but Dean was too busy trailing Castiel’s lifted eyebrow to pay attention.

“Dean, it’s enough,” the angel said, his voice rising above the bar’s considerable noise level.

“Another Bourbon,” Dean called at the barkeeper. “With ice.” He turned and shot a crooked smile at Lucy-Lauren, who was just about to leave. She ignored him.

He noticed the room beginning to spin, but concentrated hard on the counter’s scratched wooden surface until another glass was placed in front of him. He reached out for it, but before he could put it to his lips, it was unceremoniously ripped from his fingers.

“What-,” he began, but was silenced by a sudden flare of pain shooting through his arm, strong fingers gripping tight.

“You're an idiot, Dean Winchester,” a deep voice growled. Dean looked up and saw Castiel’s features swimming right before his eyes. He was too drunk to note the details, but from what he could gather, the angel looked pissed.

“You’re getting the bill now,” Castiel ordered, hand twisting around Dean’s lapels, “and then we’re going back to the motel!”

“Says who?” Dean slurred.

“Someone who’ll smite your sorry ass into the next millennium if you don’t follow orders!”

To emphasize his point, he shoved Dean against the counter and brought their faces together. “Understood?”

Dean swallowed, unable to form a coherent thought. His world blurred into a spinning mass, and from far away, he could hear the bartender’s voice, shouting something unintelligible. He was dimly aware they— _he_ —had probably become the center of attention, but Dean was already too far gone to care. When his legs were giving way beneath him, he was lucky Castiel was quick enough to pull him upright.

“Dean,” he yelled. It was the only warning the hunter got before a hand collided with his cheek. His head was yanked to the side, and for a moment, he lost any sense of direction.

“Look at me,” Castiel said sternly. Dean blinked. Once, twice, until the angel’s form seemed to take on shape again. “Just pay, then we’re out of here!”

Dean’s stomach lurched, the taste of bile conquering his mouth, and the tiny part of him that wasn’t drunk accepted the bastard was probably right this time. Under Castiel’s unnerving surveillance, he fumbled with his wallet and threw some bills on the counter. It was probably too much, but he figured it was still better than to further enrage his throbbing head with the futile attempt to count how much he’d spent drinking.

The bartender had barely reached for the money when Castiel grabbed Dean’s collar and tossed him through the bar until they were both out on the street. The cold night air had an immediate effect on Dean. He gasped in shock, then fell to his knees and started retching. It had been a long time since he’d gotten so wasted it had actually made him sick, but his time around, he didn’t even care if the whole bar was watching him blow chunks into the gutter.

Only when nausea turned into dry heaving, Dean dared to look up. Castiel was standing above him, arms folded in front of his chest, and watched him with an expression Dean found it hard to decipher.

“Cas,” he gasped, painfully aware of the soreness in his throat.

He didn’t really know what he was asking for, but it certainly didn’t include being yanked to his feet and into a dark alleyway. Even in his dazzled state, the irony of it all, caused by the strange sensation of _déjà-vu_ , didn’t escape him.

“You,” Castiel yelled, “you son of a bitch!”

Dean had barely opened his mouth to return the compliment when Castiel’s hands closed around his shoulders and pressed him back against the wall.

“What where you even thinking?”

Dean didn’t have an answer to this. But then, Castiel apparently didn’t want to hear one. He pulled Dean towards his body, then hurled him back with full force.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” he barked. “I have no idea what happened to me, but right now, I doubt it’s any more obscure than what’s going on inside your head!”

Castiel’s face hovered so close their noses almost touched, and Dean was overcome by the absurd fear the angel might smell the barf in his breath.

“I started a war,” he went on, lowering his voice to an impossibly deep baritone. “I swallowed Purgatory, I turned into a creature so evil and hideous I should have died for it. I probably did!”

For a moment, Dean thought Castiel was going to punch him. Maybe he actually intended to do so, but changed his mind with his fist in mid-air. He got hold of Dean’s scalp instead, pulling his head backwards at a painful angle.

“You may fail to understand my motives,” he whispered into Dean’s ear, leaning dangerously close. “But I certainly didn’t do it to give you an excuse to drown yourself in liquor!”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the final blow. Which, surprisingly, didn’t come. Castiel shoved him back against the wall once more, then the angel’s touch was gone, replaced by the strange tingling sensation Dean had come to associate with whatever ghostly form he was in these days. With no force holding him upright anymore, Dean's legs finally gave way and he slumped down the wall. The street was cold and littered with dirt, but seeing his shirt was probably covered in puke, he supposed he shouldn’t be picky.

He was a little surprised to see his posture mirrored by Castiel, who sat down against the wall opposite Dean’s. He looked drained, as if most of his energy had been spent in the memorable outburst the hunter had just been subjected to.

“You’re actually back, then,” Dean said, directing his words at Castiel’s eyes, stark against the darkness of the alleyway.

“So it would seem,” the angel replied.

_Smug bastard, always needed to have the last word._

Dean closed his eyes, and for a few, precious moments, they were surrounded by nothing but companionable silence. Castiel was still a ghost, Dean was still drunk, and things between them were far from being back to normal.

But for the time being, they were as good as they were going to get.


	6. Chapter 5

“Oh my God, Dean!”

Dean was fairly sure there wasn’t enough alcohol in this world to make him cope with Sam’s girlish shrieking. As it were, his head was close to exploding, even without his little brother freaking out about some harmless grown-up fun.

“Where have you been?”

Sam staggered towards Dean, but stopped dead when he noticed the telltale stains on his shirt.

“Holy crap, what happened to you?”

“I went out for a drink, Sam,” Dean replied with all the dignity he could manage. “No reason to go all Desperate Housewives on me.”

“Geez, you smell like you downed a liquor store.” He sniffed, contorting his face in disgust. “And took a bath in a sewage dump.”

He took a moment to study Dean’s face, then a thought seemed to cross his mind.

“Was Cas with you?”

“I was, but it wasn’t my idea!” the angel announced defensively. He was standing next to Dean in what could easily have been mistaken for a protective gesture. For once, Dean was glad Sam couldn’t see him.

“He was, but as it turned out, he didn’t have enough substance for that kind of stuff,” Dean snickered.

“You puked all over yourself, didn’t you?” Sam asked disapprovingly, gesturing towards Dean’s ruined clothing.

“Collateral damage was met, made, and overcome,” Dean rambled. “And now get out of the way and let me grab a shower. I feel like I need to sleep for a week.”

Sam stepped aside, probably because the stench got a little overwhelming, but to Dean, it was all the same. Without further consideration, he shrugged out of his flannel and shirt, then started fumbling with his belt.

“Dean—”

He spun around, surprised to see it was Castiel speaking up.

“What, Cas?”

The angel looked so distraught Dean found it hard to suppress a smile.

“Maybe you could leave the door open, so I can stay in here. I don’t want to—” It totally looked like the angel was blushing. “You know. Watch.”

In Dean's mind, things slowly started clicking into place. As he’d told him the night before, Castiel’s ghost was tied to Dean in some weird, not exactly G-rated way. If Dean went to shower, there was no way Castiel could escape watching him. _Hell_ , he probably _had_ watched him in the morning. Dean grinned, feeling a rush of amusement that was no doubt connected to the alcohol still running through his veins. But then, he really had to admit it was more than a little comical to see how the little creeper had apparently developed some personal space issues on his own.

“Are you sayin’ you don’t like this body of steel?” Dean joked, adamant on steering the moment safe of awkward. “You know, in High School, I was offered a job as an underwear model.”

He ran a hand down his torso, teasing. 

Castiel swallowed visibly, then turned around, feigning interest in the ugly green curtains.

“You were offered a place on the swim team.”

Dean rolled his eyes. _Trust Sam to spoil the fun._

“I’m pretty sure Cas doesn’t really want to see you wearing Speedos.”

Dean looked at the angel’s quivering back, then frowned. He could only hope Sam was actually right on this one.

 

After the shower, Dean not only felt refreshed, but also slightly more sober. Which was a good thing, he supposed, as there was nothing worse than falling into bed with the room still spinning. He put on a clean shirt and crawled between the sheets, then took a moment to check his surroundings. Castiel was standing by the table, looking sullen, and Sam was sitting propped up against the headboard of his own bed, typing away on his laptop. It was almost like old times, and Dean couldn’t help but feel a little nostalgic at the sight.

More content than he’d been for a long time, he leaned back and closed his eyes. But of course, a room full of Sam was likely to be sleep-proof.

“Dean,” he began, clearing his throat. “I’ve been calling Bobby.”

“Did you have fun exchanging recipes and knitting patterns?” Dean mumbled, hoping his obvious lack of interest would be enough to shut his brother up.

“I talked to him… about Cas.”

Dean sighed.

“He gave me the address of someone who might be able to help us.”

The words actually managed to stir up Dean's interest.

“Someone who?”

“According to Bobby, he’s a hunter colleague that specializes in ghostly apparitions. He said if there ever was a similar case, he’d know about it.”

Dean doubted there’d ever been a similar case, mostly because angels weren’t exactly a well-known species. But then, he caught Castiel’s gaze, and the angel looked so ridiculously hopeful Dean didn’t have the heart to turn him down.

“Alright, we’re gonna go there tomorrow,” he sighed, “early afternoon.”

And then, as an afterthought:

“As soon as I can drive again.”

 

**Nashville, Tennessee**

 

“But why does it have to be Nashville?”

They hadn’t spoken for a while, and both Sam and Castiel turned their heads curiously towards Dean. Of course, Castiel was not so much turning his head as sticking it between the seats, and none of them could see him anyways, at least not as long as he was occupying the backseat. Still, Dean was painfully aware of his presence, and when Castiel’s fingers by accident brushed his shoulder, he shuddered involuntarily.

“Dude, Nashville!” he exclaimed, mostly to distract himself from Castiel’s disquieting stare. “That’s where your taste in music goes if you have none left. Country music!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see his brother lifting an eyebrow.

“I thought we were going there to see Bobby’s friend. Or did I miss something?”

“What good can come from a guy living in Nashville? Besides, if we have to drive all the way to Tennessee, I’d rather get something out of it other than Dolly Parton rearing her scary face at me from gigantic street ads. Do we know if she’s even human?”

“I do not know of an angel bearing that name,” Castiel supplied helpfully.

“Thank God we can drop that theory!”

“Which theo—,” Sam began, but cut himself short just in time to avoid making an actual fool of himself, “oh, never mind. But I did some Googling. We could visit the Country Music Hall of Fame.”

“You’re joking, right?” For his brother’s sake and their eternal dysfunctional co-dependency, Dean sincerely hoped he was.

“Not really, no.”

Dean’s foot was already heading for the brakes, because– _hey_ –shotgun wasn’t supposed to think, let alone say stuff like that, but Sam went on as unblinkingly as if he’d been talking about the weather.

 _Bitch_.

“Maybe Cas would be interested. We—” Sam smiled smugly, “—well, you could take him there. Seeing that he may not be around for…”

Just when Dean thought his brother couldn’t possibly be saying what he thought he was about to say, Sam quickly changed his wording.

“With the situation at hand, he may enjoy it if you teach him a little more about real American culture.”

Dean snorted. If Sam thought that country music was part of American culture, he could just as well have said that Castiel was probably dead anyways. Not that he actually wanted to discuss any of these topics. Deciding it was time to make a point, Dean turned up the volume until Led Zeppelin was blasting through the car.

“What’s a Country Music Hall of Fame?” Castiel asked.

“A den of iniquity. And we’re definitely not going there.”

 

When they finally ended up sitting in a twisted parody of a living room, Dean was still pissed, Sam looked thoughtful, and Castiel seemed way too pleased with himself for a body-less entity most likely being punished for playing God.

Bobby’s friend Daryl wasn’t the kind of guy Dean had expected to live in Nashville. But then, his existence would have appeared equally misplaced in any other city, so it wasn’t really all that comforting.

His “apartment”, as he termed it, was hardly more than the backroom of a shabby bookstore, stuffed to the brink with more books and a heinous plastic sculpture of Elvis Presley. Even Castiel seemed unable to take his eyes from the monstrosity and Dean found himself praying the angel didn't actually hold some strange fascination for kitsch.

Daryl himself was an ordinary-looking guy in his mid-20s and in dire need of a haircut. Not that there was anything remarkable about that, Dean thought, shooting a sideward glance at the mess that was his brother’s idea of a practical hairstyle. His stubble was a characteristic of people Dean usually associated with excessive reading, sitting in front of a computer screen, and going to Comic Con: rampant in some places, virtually non-existent in others. Clearly, Bobby’s insistence they’d go see him was some sort of joke, rooted in his apparent belief they'd been pranking him when they’d claimed Castiel’s ghost was following them around.

Sure enough, sending them across the country to see some nerdy youth whose aim in life was to find Elvis’s ghost didn’t exactly sound like Bobby's idea of a good joke. But then, assuming he’d been deadpan serious when he’d done it seemed even more off, so Dean decided to go with the former explanation. If things had gone his way, they’d have turned around right there, when they’d first laid eyes on the creaking shop sign reading “Green Aura Books - Dialing the Dead”. But of course, Sam couldn’t help being Sam, and nerds probably knew a soul mate whenever they saw one.

So they’d ended up sitting in that shit-hole, Sam doing most of the talking while Dean drowned a whole bunch of inappropriate remarks in a bottle of lukewarm beer. Sam shot him a glance from time to time, probably trying to make him partake in the conversation, but Dean pretended not to notice. Castiel, on his part, appeared to be listening intently, though Dean couldn’t be sure. Mostly because he was too distracted by the fact the angel was sitting right next to him on the couch’s armrest.

“Geez, Cas! Personal space!” he hissed, but immediately regretted it. Daryl’s eyes came to rest on him, a frown spreading across his ridiculously boyish features. Dean became painfully aware a guy looking for the ghost of Elvis was actually thinking him nuts. _Good times!_

“So,” Daryl finally said after he'd spent ample time on inspecting his bitten-down nails. “You guys think that you are haunted by the ghost of an angel?”

Dean thought he sounded like a shrink. Or, worse, a bad TV-copy of a shrink.

“Not exactly,” Sam said, “to be honest, it’s not so much me but my brother that is haunted.”

“I see.” Daryl lowered his voice to an almost ridiculous degree while his eyes traveled along the empty bottle in Dean’s hand. The words “I think your brother is a hallucinating alcoholic” hung heavy in the room, even though Dean was sure Daryl never actually said them.

Despite Dean’s earlier rebuke, Castiel hadn’t moved an inch. He was still invading Dean’s personal space, and now the bastard was actually looking at him as if he was inclined to agree with Daryl.

“Excuse me if that question sounds a little stupid,” the self-proclaimed ghost expert went on, stroking what he believed to be a beard, “but how does your ghost look like? Wings? Halo? Wearing a nightgown?”

Dean instinctively prepared to snap back at Daryl when something occurred to him. Something so blatantly obvious he almost couldn't believe it had escaped their attention.

“Well, he looks like—”

“—like his vessel Jimmy Novak,” Sam finished for him, sounding devastated.

He scratched his nose and Dean didn't need another clue to know what was going on inside his brother's head. Everybody knew Sam Winchester was God’s closest call to omniscience; he wasn’t supposed to be oblivious of such an obvious fact. Dean almost felt sorry for him, though for the most part, he was too busy cheering. He was about to make a clever remark, just to twist the knife a little further, when Daryl cleared his throat.

“Vessel?” he asked, dumbstruck.

“Vessel,” Castiel repeated absentmindedly, staring at Jimmy’s fingers as if he saw them for the first time.

“You know, angels cannot communicate with humans in whatever form they come. So they need to use a human vessel.”

Dean was grateful Sam ended up explaining the vessel-thing to Daryl. For a start, the whole issue reminded him a little too much of Castiel’s _awesome_ brothers and their unhealthy obsession with the Winchesters’ bodies. Then, there was the fact he’d never quite gotten to the core of the entire thing, which was probably for the better. Though they'd only met briefly, he'd liked Jimmy Novak, and he'd felt sorry for the guy when fate, combined with Castiel’s unrivaled talent for persuasion, had signed the deal for him.

He’d always hoped the angel felt a little sorry himself, too. But with Castiel, one could never really know. One time, he seemed almost human, and then, he was back to his uncaring, all-powerful “I am an angel of the Lord”-mode. At this particular moment, however, both sides were apparently numbed by an overall sense of confusion.

“So you’re saying he looks like someone he shouldn’t really look like,” Daryl summed up thoughtfully after Sam had finished explaining.

“Well, considering he claims he’s approximately the size of the Chrysler Building—,” Dean interjected, throwing a provoking smile at Castiel.

It worked. The angel tilted his head and gave Dean one of his infamous glares that seemed to convey something along the lines of _doubt me and I’ll smite you, mud monkey._

“I AM the size of the Chrysler building!”

“Oh, really?”

Finding the whole conversation was starting to amuse him, Dean leaned forward to put down his bottle on the table. When he got up, he unthinkingly grabbed Castiel’s sleeve to pull him along. And then, he actually felt the cheap fabric of Jimmy’s suit between his fingers, right there with Castiel, who seemed equally taken aback when he found himself standing face to face with Dean.

Dean was sure it took way too long until Castiel’s eyes were leaving his face, traveling down Jimmy Novak’s narrow figure, across the twisted tie and the poorly fitting slacks of his two-piece suit.

“This is not possible,” he whispered, clearly in shock.

Dean wanted to say something comforting, maybe touch him again, but Sam was unrelenting.

“When the Leviathan overtook him, he was gone. Right, Cas?”

His eyes came to rest on the spot he thought occupied by Castiel, missing him by more than an inch.

“Cas?” Dean repeated, mindful of the fact he was the only one the angel could really answer to.

“I–,” the angel began, clinging to Dean’s gaze as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. “I don’t remember. It was… painful.”

“So it’s possible it was ripped out?” Dean swallowed, choking on the thought alone. “Your grace, I mean.”

He wasn’t prepared to think about the implications of this statement. Not just yet.

“Leviathan’s are very ancient, very powerful creatures,” Castiel replied slowly. “So I think it may be possible.”

His face was ashen and for a split-second, Dean forgot he wasn’t actually human. _Hell_ , he wasn’t even there. And still, Dean couldn’t keep his hand from reaching out to Castiel, all set on touching him, while the angel kept on freakin’ staring, pupils blown in anxious expectation, lips slightly parted, until—

_Sam!_

“I don’t really get what you guys have been discussing, but it looks like whatever happened tied Cas more permanently to his human body. Even in death.”

For once, Dean was actually grateful for his brother’s unprecedented talent to speak up at the most inopportune moment. Not that this situation could have gotten any worse, seeing that he was standing in the middle of a room, reaching into thin air while a suspicious shade of red was creeping up his face.

“But what about Jimmy?” he asked, hoping the question would prove distracting enough to change his posture and sit back down on the couch.

Castiel remained standing next to him, fists clenching and unclenching in obvious distraction.

“Jimmy has been gone for a while. When I came back after Raphael destroyed me, he was no longer with me.”

For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say more, but Daryl’s voice beat him to it.

“Okay, no idea who that Jimmy guy is you’re talking about here,” he rambled, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose, “but let’s assume for a moment your angel friend became permanently tied to a human body. This might explain his appearance, but not why your brother's the only one that can see him.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“Thanks for the summary, Sherlock!”

If Daryl was intimidated by Dean’s attitude, he didn’t show it.

“Easy, bro! I’m getting there.”

Daryl got up from his tabby-looking armchair and headed straight for one of the countless piles of books littering the room. In what looked like a random gesture, he pulled out a leather-bound notebook and started flipping the pages.

Dean shot his brother a curious glance, but Sam merely shrugged.

“Ah, here we go!” Daryl exclaimed after skimming his notes, tapping the page with his index finger. “Two years ago, I met a guy who was haunted by a young woman’s spirit. Turned out she was the former tenant of his apartment.”

The announcement was followed by an artificial pause that Dean and Sam ended simultaneously by screwing up their eyes. Daryl seemed disappointed by their lack of enthusiasm, but carried on anyways.

“The thing is: She wasn’t dead. Just in a coma.”

“In a coma?” Dean frowned, suddenly wishing he hadn’t finished his beer so quickly.

“Yeah, well—,” Daryl replied.

For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, but resolved whatever inner conflicts were troubling him by resting a soothing hand on the head of his plastic Elvis. Dean’s insides cringed at the sight.

”I’m not sure why it was only him that could see her, considering they’d never met before. But apparently, they were kinda destined for each other or something.”

He appeared slightly uncomfortable with the details. But then, the most romantic experience of his life probably centered on a picture of Carrie Fisher and his hand.

“So maybe you should face the possibility that your friend—angel or not—is tied to a human body. And still alive somewhere.”

Dean and Sam looked at each other, sharing a telltale glance. Maybe Bobby had been right. Maybe Daryl actually knew his business, even though his motivations could be termed dubious at best. But no matter the answers he’d provided so far, the riddle still remained unsolved.

“Dude, you realize that this doesn’t explain why no one but me can see him,” Dean said, purportedly ignoring Castiel’s piercing glare. “I am not his boyfriend or something.”

Sam smirked.

If Castiel had anything to add, he kept it to himself. Which was understandable, considering the poor guy— _genderless wavelength of celestial intent_ —had just learned that he might not only be human, but actually alive, if not exactly kicking.

“But there must be some sort of connection,” Daryl insisted. This time, for the first time since they’d started talking, his eyes traveled across the room and, without wavering, came to rest upon Castiel. The angel seemed to sense it, too, judging from the way he stared at him in disbelief. Dean was pretty sure Daryl couldn’t see him, but he knew enough about psychics to recognize their superior modes of perception.

“The handprint, Dean!” Castiel suddenly exclaimed.

_Of course!_

Before Sam could open his big mouth to make yet another pointless suggestion, Dean shrugged out of his leather jacket and flannel. Rolling up the sleeve of his t-shirt, he revealed the hand-shaped scar on his upper arm to the curious onlookers. Sam knitted his brow until his face looked almost grotesquely wrinkled. It probably hurt, though to Sam, it clearly was only half as painful as the sudden realization he’d overlooked yet another obvious clue.

Even Daryl seemed slightly stunned. Not for the first time, it occurred to Dean he’d probably thought them nuts.

“That’s fuckin’ crazy, man,” he gasped, hand cradling Elvis’s head. “How’d you get that?”

“I grabbed him tight and raised him from perdition.”

Dean rolled his eyes at Castiel, but the angel seemed unperturbed. Well, at least neither Daryl nor Sam could hear any of his comments.

“Told you I got groped by an angel,” Dean said as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Castiel flinched at the casual tone of his voice, but Dean forced himself to ignore him.

_Freakin’ angels and their goddamn pride!_

“Thought you said he’s not your boyfriend?” Daryl grinned.

Dean shot him a death glare.

“Alright, I get it,” Daryl finally said in defeat. “Whatever you were doing with this guy—angel—you seem to have some kind of connection. Maybe you’re tied to him.”

Dean looked at Castiel, finding the angel was still sulking.

“Now isn’t that good news?”

His voice was dripping off sarcasm, but this time, no one seemed to care about his opinion.

“And what do we do now?” Sam eventually asked.

“I’d say your best bet is to find the body.”

“And then?”

Even Castiel turned towards Daryl, his face carrying the same look of anxious expectation and quiet hope Dean was sure he’d find mirrored in his own.

“Hope it wakes up,” Daryl supplied with a shrug. “Or kill it.”


	7. Chapter 6

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

Two days later, they were sitting in the living room of Bobby's house in Sioux Falls, stuffed to the brink with books, piles of paper, and the kind of scrap only a hunter would find useful. On the flickering screen of the prehistoric television, John Wayne rode across the planes, then pulled his gun—

Dean’s interest was almost whetted when the picture switched to an old hag talking about the merits of food combining. Castiel furrowed his brow, then the TV-screen momentarily went black. Only seconds later it flashed awake again, this time to the roar of a pissed-off lion who’d obviously been spurned by his mate.

“For Christ’s sake, tell him to stop doing that!” Bobby snapped.

The old hunter sat bent over a collection of newspaper cuttings, annoyance written all over his wrinkled features. Castiel eyed him dismissively from his vantage point on the sofa, then opted for a strategic withdrawal and switched off the television, putting the remote back on the table.

“Tell him Jesus has nothing to do with it,” he said pointedly. “And I can hear him perfectly well.”

“This is new,” Sam observed dryly, trying hard to hide his amusement.

“He just discovered the other day he can touch and move objects if he’s emotionally involved or really puts his mind to it,” Dean explained.

He wasn’t quite sure how the angel managed any sort of emotional involvement with TV-shows, considering the program on a Wednesday afternoon was generally bad. But then, maybe he was holding out hope for another glimpse at the pizza man. The thought made Dean chuckle, but Sam merely frowned.

“Reminds me a lot of this one time. You know, when you were hospitalized after that car accident.”

The brothers shared a look, just a split-second, but it was enough to let each other know they’d never forget, no matter the fact they rarely talked about their father’s death.

“Yeah, it’s pretty much the same, I guess,” Dean said slowly. “Except that I didn’t have a TV in my room. Man, that sucked!”

Bobby smirked, but thankfully refrained from further comments.

“Did he see any reapers?” Sam asked.

“No.” Castiel seemed to contemplate the matter, but finally shook his head. “No, I didn’t. But I’m not sure angels fall within a reaper’s remit. Though, technically, I suppose I’m not an angel anymore.”

He swallowed visibly and Dean couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pity for him. He’d been a powerful ethereal being for millennia, and now he was confined to an incorporeal existence, tied to a weak human body they’d failed to locate so far.

“No, he hasn’t,” Dean told Sam and Bobby, leaving out the rest because he felt it was something Castiel hadn’t meant to share with anyone but him.

“Reconsidering your case, it’s quite likely he’s hospitalized somewhere.” Sam looked pensive. “Which means we’re probably looking for some John Doe who was found unconscious and has since been in a coma.”

“A John Doe that could have been found anywhere. What if the Leviathan dropped him in Mongolia?”

_Dear old Bobby. Always spreading optimism!_

“I don’t remember anything after the Leviathan took over,” Castiel supplied blearily. “My first memory afterwards is about the overcoat and how I saw it in the trunk of your car.”

Dean couldn’t help grinning.

“You really liked that thing, didn’t you?”

“It seems you did, too,” Castiel deadpanned, “why else would you keep it after I was gone?”

Dean blushed and scratched his neck, slightly agitated by the fact both Sam and Bobby were clearly enjoying the sight of him fidgeting on the sofa.

“When you idjits are done philandering, maybe we could discuss our next move,” Bobby finally said.

Dean blushed some more, then decided it was about time he plotted his escape.

“I suggest Bobby scans newspaper reports and calls whatever sources he has, Sam does some online research—”

“What about you?”

“I’m gonna question Cas and see if he can remember anything.”

“But I already said that—,” the angel began, but Dean shut him up with a look.

“Also about that Leviathan.”

Getting up, Dean gestured towards Castiel, which was kind of unnecessary, seeing the angel had to follow him anyways, but he felt it couldn’t hurt to give him a little warning.

“Where are you going?” Bobby asked sharply.

“I can talk to Cas while I’m doing some cosmetic surgery on my baby,” Dean replied, already standing in the doorway. “She sounded a little off when we drove here.”

 

Working on the Impala never failed to have a soothing effect on Dean. There wasn’t really anything wrong with his car, but there always was a bolt to fix or a wire to replace if one only cared to look for the details. He was softly humming to himself while he fixed some barely noticeable problem with the wheel suspension, stretched out beneath the car with only his legs peeping out.

Castiel was sitting on the hood of the Impala, but so far hadn’t cared to interrupt Dean’s work. If there was anything the angel remembered about the Leviathans, Dean had no doubt he would have shared it. As it were, those ancient monsters had started out as part of the soul cocktail Castiel had swallowed, but then managed to regain more and more ground inside his grace until they’d finally taken over. They'd already talked about it, and Dean didn’t really want to torment his friend by making him relive the experience all over again. He’d been possessed by a demon once, and he’d never forget the constricting agony of being held captive in his own mind.

“Could you hand me the oil from the tool kit?” he asked, but remembered instantly that the angel probably wouldn’t be able to pick up something as profane as an oil can.

“Oh, never mind, I just—”

He’d already crawled out halfway when he saw the can dangling right in front of his eyes.

“Here,” Castiel said casually.

“Man, you really need to rethink your priorities.”

As per usual, Dean tried to hide his astonishment behind a joking remark and a lighthearted smirk. And still, there was the tiniest trace of a smile on his face when he reached out and took the can from Castiel’s hands, fingers brushing accidentally. The angel felt perfectly solid and _human_ , as if he didn’t need to put all his strength in moving something as simple as a teacup. It was a weird sensation, and Dean found he didn’t know what to do with it.

“You asked for it,” Castiel replied, as if the simple fact explained everything. But then, maybe it did.

Suddenly, Dean wanted nothing more than to crawl back into the comforting shelter of his car. Mumbling something about needing to finish up, he tried to refocus on the wheel suspension. Without much success, as it turned out.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel suddenly said out of nowhere, and Dean felt the oil can slip from his fingers.

“About the things I said last week.”

Lost for words, Dean held his breath and watched the gravel around him slowly turning black.

“I’m not sorry I dragged you out of that bar, though,” Castiel went on. And _Jesus_ , Dean would never have thought the angel’s voice could sound so soft, almost silken. “Why are you so set on destroying yourself, Dean?”

Dean picked up the leaking oil can and propped himself up on his elbows. When he’d finally managed to crawl out, he got to his feet and sat down on the hood next to Castiel. The angel’s hands were resting in his lap, posture stiff, but strangely calm and composed. It was a different Castiel than the desperate, angry creature he’d confronted a few days back. But then, maybe he was also a different Dean now.

“You know,” he began hoarsely, “I’ve been thinking about what you said. And I—I actually think you weren’t all that wrong.

He paused, but thankfully, Castiel didn’t interrupt him.

“I mean, I still think you messed up some. But there’s the thing: Whenever I’m not looking, people turn their backs on me. You, and even Sam. When I was in Hell, he went all crazy on that demon chick’s blood. And now you did the same.”

Castiel frowned, and Dean suddenly realized he was probably thinking about Meg. It would have been more than a little comical, except that for once, Dean really didn’t want his words to be taken lightly.

So he added: “Figuratively speaking, of course. But there was nothing I could do about it. Because you wouldn’t let me help.”

He knew he probably looked hurt, but this time, he didn’t even care.

Castiel watched him intently, like he always did, but suddenly, he turned his head and looked away. Staring down at his lap, he was the perfect image of a child caught with his hand trapped in the cookie jar: embarrassed, and conspicuously guilty.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he said, closing his eyes, as if he needed to concentrate on the words. ”I’m sorry I didn’t have faith.”

When he looked back at Dean, the emotion in his face was naked and raw.

“But you didn’t have faith in me either.”

Dean wanted to protest, more out of habit than for any actual reason, but Castiel wouldn’t let him.

“Maybe this is something we both need to learn,” he said, then added “Faith, I mean”, as if the matter needed further clarification.

“You know that’s a really fucked up thing to say for an angel, right?”

Against his will, Dean felt the corners of his mouth twitch.

“I’m not an angel anymore, Dean,” Castiel made sure to remind him. “And I guess I could say for myself that I learned from the best.”

Dean momentarily lost his balance, but caught himself just in time to avoid slipping off the car. It wasn’t a thought he’d let on so far, but that didn’t make it any less disturbing.

Doing something utterly stupid in a desperate attempt to save the world? Check. Doing it all by yourself because you didn’t trust anyone else to do it right? Check. Working with demons to achieve your goals? He was a bit hesitant there, but _yeah_ … Check.

“Cas, I am—”

“No need to say it,” Castiel interrupted him gently. “The things I did—they’re not your fault, they're mine. But Dean… you cannot protect everyone. Not even Sam. People need to find their own way, and you cannot keep them from making their own mistakes.”

Dean furrowed his brow. It wasn’t exactly something he was keen on hearing, not least because he found it hard to deny. Keeping Sammy safe was such a vital part of his existence that it had invaded who he was and how he saw himself. Then Castiel had entered the picture, and Dean hadn’t really known what to do with him. He didn’t seem to fit any category, neither family nor friend, and even now, Dean wasn’t quite sure where to place him.

“It’s called Free Will, you know?” Castiel added, realizing Dean was at loss at what to do with his words.

“And it’s the greatest thing you’ll ever own, no matter how you twist and turn it. No matter how much it hurts.”

Castiel looked up, and Dean watched in fascination how the blue in his eyes merged with the colors of the fading sun.

“And I’d rather be dead and gone than an angel in Heaven, without ever knowing how it feels to have a choice. How it feels to feel.”

 _You don’t mean that_ , Dean wanted to say. _You want to be sitting happily on your cloud, playing the harp or whatever it is angels do. I hate that I corrupted you. I hate knowing me turned you into this._

But those were things Dean Winchester didn’t say, so he settled for a thoroughly manly clap on the angel’s shoulder. It was hardly more than a fleeting touch, but when Castiel looked back at him, Dean almost couldn’t bear the intense relief and gratitude he found in his friend’s eyes.

He didn’t really get it until several minutes later, when they were both walking back to the house. When he’d touched him, what he’d felt beneath his hand was a warm and solid human body, not the tingling sensation he’d come to associate with Castiel, the ghost.

 _Emotional involvement, my ass_ , he mused. He’d just been highly concentrated.

Of course, Castiel, naive little cloud-hopper that he was, thought otherwise. Dean was pretty sure he even heard him humming to himself, though he couldn't quite identify the tune.

Well, maybe he could, but angels didn’t really listen to Led Zeppelin, right?

 

When they went back inside, Dean and Castiel were greeted by two all but happy faces.

“How’s the research coming on, guys?” Dean asked, despite the awkward feeling he already knew the answer.

“Nothing,” Sam groaned, “absolutely nothing.”

He shook his head and closed his laptop.

“Haven’t found a single clue.”

Bobby looked less devastated, though the way he manhandled a bottle of whiskey probably said an awful lot about how frustrated he really was.

“We checked all the usual databases, but to no avail. There’s virtually no John Doe that matches Castiel’s description.”

Sam took a sip from his beer and handed one to Dean, figuring he’d need it after their less than successful exertions.

“What about your little interrogation thing?”

Bobby looked pointedly at Dean, who made a big show out of opening the bottle with his teeth.

“Nothing,” Dean replied, feeling disheartened. He hadn’t actually considered the possibility Bobby’s contacts wouldn’t yield anything, and now found the situation was slowly, but steadily slipping out of control.

“So from what we know, Cas’s body could just as well be on a tropical island,” he commented miserably, “surrounded by a bunch of bare-breasted natives with flower garlands.

“I don't think I’d still be alive if that was the case,” Castiel retorted dryly.

Dean managed a smile, grateful for Castiel’s reaction, which was part sarcasm, part good-natured assurance that he was still fine, no matter the daunting news.

“I’d certainly be.”

“Oh for goodness sake,” Bobby groaned, bringing his glass down with a thud. “I have no idea what you guys are up to all the time, but if Dean keeps on staring like that, I’m out of this room. Or this house, for that matter.”

Sam harrumphed, provoking Dean to turn away from Castiel. He studied the label of his beer bottle when a thought crossed his mind. Incidentally, it had nothing whatsoever to do with beer or any kind of alcohol really, but it was exactly the kind of thought that made Dean wonder how he’d managed to survive in this job for so long. The only comfort he had was that the same accounted for Sam.

_And Bobby._

“If he looks like Jimmy Novak,” Dean said deliberately, “why would his body be called any different?”

 

Ten minutes later, they knew that “James Novak” had been hospitalized in his native Pontiac, Illinois. No one was actually surprised to learn he was in a coma.


	8. Chapter 7

 

**Pontiac, Illinois**

 

“I’m sorry, but visiting hours are already over,” the nurse said, an unyielding gleam in her eyes.

She was in her forties, with dark hair and horn-rims, and there was no mistaking the fact that despite her narrow build, she wouldn’t take shit from anyone. Least of all from two guys whose rumpled appearance had obviously raised her suspicions.

“You know, me and my friend, we’ve come all the way from the East Coast.”

Dean gave her his most charming smile, but it soon became evident she was immune to his considerable persuasion skills.

_Well, he wasn’t done, yet!_

“And then we learn Jimmy’s had this horrible accident.”

Dean tried his best to look concerned, and Sam followed suit, sporting his most convincing puppy face.

“You came here to see him?” She screwed up her eyes in obvious disbelief. “Didn’t you know he’s been missing for years?”

Sam gave his brother one of his death glares, translating to “Man, you’re the most stupid being on this planet”. Dean ignored him.

“He’s been _missing_?” he asked, feigning surprise.

“We didn’t know that,” Sam jumped in, deciding it was probably best if he took matters in his own hands.

“We were in college together and hadn’t heard from each other in a while, but we knew he was living in Pontiac. So when we had business in the area, we figured we could pay him a visit. Talk about old times.”

The nurse sighed, and though her stocky body remained firmly planted in the doorway, she seemed to soften up a little. “It’s a sad, sad story, I’m afraid. He went missing a few years back. Left behind his wife and child. Not much later, someone apparently broke into their house and killed a neighbor who was trying to help. But nobody knows what happened to Jimmy.”

Instinctively, Dean turned to look for Castiel, only to find that the angel was gone. He felt a surge of panic rising up, but calmed himself just in time to avoid Sam’s foot aiming for his toes. The nurse had apparently missed his momentary distraction and went on unperturbedly.

“And then, suddenly, he’s back, washed up on the shore of some lake in Idaho. When they identified him, he was brought back to Pontiac, seeing his family still lives here and all. I tell you it’s hard for the poor woman, but the girl rarely ever comes to see him. Must be tough for her, too. She—”

The fate of Amelia and Claire Novak seemed to be something she liked to talk about. It was a topic they’d have liked to talk about, too, seeing that a few years back, they’d left them with a house full of corpses, and a herd of demons on their heels. But as tempting as it was to learn more about Jimmy’s family, Dean felt they had more pressing matters to attend to.

“So it wasn’t an accident?” he asked, hopeful she might reveal a little more on the circumstances under which Castiel’s body was found. “What caused his condition, I mean.”

Her eyes immediately went hard again.

“I’m really not supposed to tell you that, Sir.”

Sam gave him a nudge and stepped forward a little, shoving Dean to the background.

“Oh, uh… sorry. Rose,” he said, getting the name from the name badge on her scrubs, “we understand that. It’s just—none of this actually sounds like Jimmy. He was always the responsible one... making us clean our rooms or getting us something to eat when we were busy studying for our exams.”

He pretended to get lost in memories of happy college days.

“I can’t believe we may never hear his voice again. We haven’t talked for a while, but sometimes, when I feel down, I still hear his voice in my head, all optimistic and encouraging, and then I somehow make it through the day.”

Dean rolled his eyes. There sure was a fine line between a touching story and complete and utter sap.

Rose seemed to agree. She gave Sam a telltale look, then pulled herself together and held on to the door handle.

“That’s really lovely. But we have rules here.”

She was just about to close the door when Dean stepped forward again.

“But to every rule there’s an exception. Right?”

He made a point of twisting his hands in obvious distress.

“Please.”

Dean sought her gaze until their eyes locked. Then, finally, she cracked.

“Alright. I have to make my rounds now, so I guess I can take you along. But you really need to be quiet. And don’t even think about touching anything.”

She stepped aside and bade them in.

“Thank you so much!”

When they followed her through the corridor, Dean winked at Sam, but his brother merely shrugged.

“Is Cas coming along?” he whispered.

And there it was again, that uneasy feeling something wasn’t quite right.

“I can’t see him,” Dean whispered back. He checked again, but the angel was nowhere to be seen. He was already sifting through all possible explanations when they stopped in front of room 505.

“Here we are,” Rose said, opening the door. “I'll complete my rounds and then come back to pick you up. And be mindful of what you’re saying. He won’t wake up, but with coma patients, you never know. At least that’s what the doctors say…”

 

Dean was the first to enter. He didn’t even realize he was tiptoeing until he almost stumbled over a wayward chair. It was already dark and the only light illuminating the small room came from the dimmed bulb of a nightlight. Apart from the chair, Dean could make out a wardrobe and a bed that had been placed close to the single window.

“Come in,” a deep voice said, and Dean almost jumped when he found it was Castiel’s. The angel—or rather his ghost—stood by the window, staring at the body splayed out before him.

 _What am I doing here?_ Dean asked himself, but finally mustered up the courage to approach the bed. And really, the man before him was Castiel. Castiel wearing Jimmy Novak’s body, only that it was no longer a vessel, but inextricably linked to his grace or whatever remained of it. _Did he have a soul now?_

The body was a little paler than its ghostly counterpart, but other than that, it was the perfect image of Castiel. Dean looked between the two, the sleeping body and the restless spirit, and despite everything he’d seen in his life, it scared the shit out of him.

“So it’s true then,” he said, pointlessly.

Dean leaned down over the unconscious body, unable to stop himself from reaching out to touch, to feel that this was actually the real thing, not the fickle translucent form he’d grown so used to face. Lost in thought, his fingers brushed over the exposed wrist, right below the tape keeping the IV in place.

It was just the lightest of touches, but Castiel gasped. For a split-second, Dean thought he’d woken up, but then realized the sound came from across the bed, where his friend was still standing, staring at Dean in obvious bewilderment.

“I felt that,” he whispered, awed by the unexpected sensation.

Dean instantly shrugged away, stumbling backwards. He almost crashed into Sam who'd been watching the scene from the doorway.

“Dude, don’t say stuff like that! That’s creepy!”

“He felt that, didn’t he?” Sam remarked thoughtfully. “I’d say that’s a good thing. It means Cas is actually tied to his body.

“So Daryl was right.”

Dean felt a stupid mixture of relief and anxiety. Now that they knew what was going on, they could finally start working on a plan to get Castiel back into Jimmy’s body. Except Dean wasn’t entirely convinced that for the angel, it actually made a difference. It was more than likely he’d never regain his true form, but be tied to a constricting human body. And human bodies aged, they became ill, and eventually, they died. If he ever woke up, Castiel would be mortal like the rest of them, just a small, powerless creature. One amongst many.

It was hard to believe that only months ago, he’d declared himself their new God. And now he was lying in a hospital in Pontiac with an IV in his vein, and other shitty human things Dean didn’t even want to think about.

“You alright?” Sam asked, interrupting Dean’s train of thought.

“I am, but… Cas?”

Castiel sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at his body with a distant expression on his face.

“This is me,” he said in disbelief.

And somehow, Dean got it. To them, Castiel might technically have been an angel, but he’d always looked like Jimmy Novak. To Castiel, however, waking up to the reality of a human life probably equaled Dean waking up as an ant. Which was more than a little disturbing, now that he really thought about it.

He was just about to suggest they’d leave when Rose came back into the room.

“Time’s over,” she announced.

“Is it okay if I stay for a little while longer?”

Castiel’s question was so unexpected Dean took a moment to realize he’d spoken at all.

“W—” he began, but cut himself short just in time to avoid giving a show to Rose. She stood in the doorway, arms akimbo, and sternly nodded towards the corridor.

“Can you give us just one more minute?” Dean asked. “Just to… uh… you know, say goodbye?”

He looked at Sam, signalizing that it was important.

“Yeah, we don’t know when— _if_ —we’ll be back, so—”

He didn’t finish, but this time, the crestfallen expression on his face actually did the job.

“One minute.”

Rose’s voice was stern, but not without compassion.

“I’ll wait outside to give you some privacy.”

“What’s going on?” Sam asked.

“Cas wants to stay.”

“Why?”

“I can’t really explain it,” Castiel admitted. “But I guess you could say I need some time for— _with_ —myself.”

“But is that even possible?”

So far, the angel had seemed unable to leave Dean. Except when he’d suddenly gone missing, only to turn back up at his body’s side.

“Apparently, it is.”

Obviously, Castiel was as bewildered as Dean by the strange rules that dictated his existence. Truth be told, the hunter didn’t have a good feeling about it, but then remembered what his friend had said about people needing to make their own choices.

“Alright,” he said, nodding slightly. “You’ll be able to find us?”

“I will,” Castiel promised.

And this time, Dean really wanted to believe him.

 

It was the worst night Dean had had for days. Though he’d never admit it to himself, he’d actually missed Castiel’s presence in the room. When he was around at night, the angel had made a point of not staring at Dean’s sleeping form, usually resting on an armchair. One time, Dean had woken up to find him lying on the floor, curled up on what looked like a fairly comfortable carpet. He’d been fast asleep, and Dean had found it more than a little ironic that Castiel, the ghost—other than Castiel, the Lord’s holiest—apparently needed sleep. Of course, Dean was still far from offering him a spot on his mattress, but in the days that followed, he made a habit out of placing some spare blankets on the floor. _Just in case._

With Castiel holding vigil over his comatose body, Dean almost felt… he didn’t know whether there even was a word for it. Bereft, maybe. Bereft of what, however, he couldn’t actually say. Despite his occasional taste for adventure, Dean wasn’t one for company at night. Sam snoring in the bed next to his was acceptable, though his gassy brother’s presence was more of a necessity than something he actually enjoyed. Waking next to Lisa had been nice, almost like a dream come true, but then, it had been exactly that: A dream, something that was too good to last.

Castiel, however, was a different matter altogether. Dean wanted to tell himself it was because of all the nightmares he’d had, about Castiel walking into the lake— _black goo, Leviathans, poof!_ —but deep down, he knew that wasn’t the whole truth. Castiel’s presence felt just right. It wasn’t big or overly phenomenal, just casual and unassuming. If Dean’s life was a puzzle, Castiel was a piece that actually fitted, and now that it was gone, he immediately felt its loss.

“You look like you need another coffee,” Sam announced, blatantly staring at the prominent shadows framing his brother’s eyes.

Dean groaned, then went back to shuffling the bacon around on his plate. He didn’t know whether it was him or the diner, but everything seemed to taste like putty anyways.

“Dean, you know he’ll be back, right?”

_Damn!_

Dean’s fork dropped, colliding with his plate in a noisy clang.

Several guests looked up, but Dean didn’t care. He just stared at his brother, trying to take him apart with just a vicious stare, but Sam, obnoxious pain-in-the-ass that he was, didn’t give in and stared right back at him. They sat like that for a long moment until a gruff voice finally interrupted the contest.

“Dean,” Castiel said, “I need to talk to you.”

Dean spun around, tearing his eyes from Sam’s to focus on Castiel. Though he knew it technically wasn’t possible, the angel looked just as rumpled and worn out as Dean felt. His tie was askew and his hair looked as if he’d been messing with it for hours. However, none of it got to Dean as much as the fear and sadness so clearly showing on his face.

“What happened?”

“Can we go… _somewhere_?” He sounded miserable. “Maybe to the park, go for a walk. It’s what people do on a sunny day, isn’t it?”

“Cas, are you alright?”

Dean found it hard to make sense of his friend’s strange demeanor. Castiel had never been one to care about adequate human past times, and even now his request hardly matched the nervous flicker in his eyes.

“Please, Dean,” he pressed on. “Let's get out of here.”

Dean felt his weariness ebb away, only to be replaced by a growing feeling of dread. Whatever truth Castiel had learned at the hospital, it had shaken him to the core.

“Listen,” he said, addressing Sam, “I just need a moment.”

“With Cas,” he added, as if his brother still needed notification about their friend’s presence. “You can take the car. I’ll call you when we’re… uh… done.”

If Sam shot him a worried glance, Dean didn’t notice anymore.

 

They left the diner and walked down the road, wandering around aimlessly for a while. Dean pretended to be calm, though his straying eyes and sweaty palms betrayed the nervous anticipation that accompanied his wait for the inevitable blow. Whatever the angel had seen or heard at the hospital had shaken him to the core. He was pallid, brows tightly drawn together, but whenever Dean approached him, he evaded his gaze and said something like “soon” or “just give me a minute”. Despite his reluctance to share what was bothering him, he didn’t stray from Dean’s side. It even went so far that whenever the hunter tried to bring some distance between himself and the angel, Castiel immediately changed his pace to close the gap.

Finally, Dean discovered a narrow path that led up to an iron gate coated in greenish patina. Behind it lay a small park, well hidden between towering apartment complexes. By the time they passed through the gate, Dean’s heart was racing, hands balled into fists to keep himself from pressing the angel back against the iron bars and shake the truth out of him.

They’d ended up at a deserted playground when Castiel finally spoke.

“It’s over.”

His voice was soft and quiet, yet laced with so much emotion Dean found it hard to believe he’d managed to hold back for so long.

“What?” Dean sputtered, unable to make sense of his friend’s words. “Why do you say that?”

“I heard them talking.”

One of his hands closed around the edge of a rusty monkey bar, steadying himself.

“The doctors,” he clarified when Dean didn’t get it.

“Apparently, Jimmy’s—my brain was damaged when the Leviathans tried to drown me.”

“But you were alive, Cas,” Dean stuttered, unable to fully process the information. “Your heart's still beating, right?”

He knew he was talking nonsense, fast and without intonation, but found he wanted to be in denial, wanted to believe Castiel couldn’t be right because Dean didn’t want him to be.

“That doesn’t make a difference, Dean. It’s possible for a human body to keep up all its vital functions and still remain an empty shell. The part that thinks and feels, the one that makes you a person, may already be gone, even though your heart's still beating.”

It was obvious to Dean he was quoting one of the doctors, as there could be no way he was believing any of his words himself. He was an angel, _for Heaven's sake_ , and angels were supposed to believe in the immortality of the soul and condemn the human tendency to play God. Dean wrinkled his brow in disbelief, angry with himself because he’d allowed Castiel to stay at the hospital in the first place.

“But you are here, Cas,” he said in exasperation. “To me, you are a person.”

He found it was true. Castiel was no longer a powerful angel, no celestial messenger or supernatural wishing-well. Just a person and a friend, and no one would ever be able to change that again. Least of all a stupid bunch of would-be-doctors at Pontiac Memorial Hospital.

“Thank you, Dean.”

Castiel attempted a smile, but failed miserably.

“But maybe it’d be better if I—moved on. Maybe I’m here because the part of Jimmy’s body that held me is already dead.”

He didn’t sound convinced, but then, Dean suddenly understood what this was all about. It wasn’t about Castiel, it was about him. Yet again. For whatever reason, the angel wanted him to buy all the shit he pulled. But after years of experience with Sammy, Dean wasn’t to be fooled.

“Stop that right there! As long as you’re with me, I won’t let you go.”

“But—”

“No. I don’t want to hear it.”

Dean made a point by turning on his heels and heading for the gate, hoping the angel was following him.

“You’ll probably have to, Dean.”

Castiel didn’t budge, but spoke loud enough for Dean to hear him.

“This isn’t really up to me. You see, Jimmy’s wife—Amelia—already gave her consent.”

At the last line, his voice faltered.

Dean spun around, looking bewildered.

“Consent? To what?”

“To end life support. In two days, I’ll be dead”

It was a matter-of-fact statement, but its terrible implications caught Dean completely off-guard. His core was hit by sudden coldness, skin tingling in dreadful anticipation, while his mouth fell open in a silent gasp.

“There’s no way I’m gonna allow that, Cas!”

He shook his head emphatically.

“I’ve lost you once, and I mourned you. I can’t do it again, Cas. I just can’t.”

Tears welled up in his eyes, but this time, he didn’t try to fight them.

“Dean. I think I understand, but—”

So far, he’d managed to avoid Dean’s gaze, but when their eyes met, Castiel’s voice crumbled.

“Don’t give me that _the Lord moves in mysterious ways_ -shit again,” Dean gritted out behind clenched teeth

“Well, but looking at us, you can’t actually deny it, can you?”

He couldn’t believe Castiel was actually trying to joke, a sad smile on his grief-stricken face.

“Your Father,” Dean said firmly, “turned his back on you once. But I—I won’t let you die. Not on my watch.”

Castiel’s features softened, suddenly so full of love and tenderness Dean almost couldn’t bear it. Something inside him broke, shattering into a million little pieces, and he realized the meaning of his words, then and there. Only a few months back, he’d asked Death to kill Castiel, had wanted him gone because he didn’t want to feel—to give—so much for someone who wasn’t Sammy, wasn’t family or Bobby. And even with the souls raging inside his grace, Castiel had looked back at him knowingly, as if he was seeing right through him, right into the part that was neither John’s little soldier nor Sam’s guardian. Just Dean.

“I still want you to know that I’d die a happy _ang_ —man—if what time remained on my hands I was allowed to spend with you.”

Dean wanted to cry in earnest, tears threatening to flood his eyes, but for Castiel’s sake, he forced his emotions back into place. _It’s not over, yet_ , he told himself. His friend was still there, his body still alive, and there was no way he was going to accept what some stupid doctors were saying. Because, _let’s be honest_ , if he were that kind of man, he would've died a long time ago.

Still, Castiel made it awfully hard for him to be optimistic.

“I want to make amends with Sam,” he suddenly announced, “I owe him an apology and—”

His voice trailed off, but Dean still got where he was coming from. During the past few days, they’d frequently talked about Sam. There could be no doubt Castiel regretted ripping off his brother’s wall, so much that Dean actually found himself trying to soothe him by repeating all the things Sam had told him: about his wall cracking before Cas tore it down, and how he’d learned to deal with his memories until they were no longer torturing him. Still, Dean instinctively knew it hadn’t done a thing to make Castiel feel better about it.

But then, if he actually went to Sam and apologized in Castiel’s name, the gesture would have been final, like a thinly veiled goodbye or an admission of failure. And Dean couldn’t possibly let that happen.

“Okay, that’s enough sap for one day,” he said resolutely. Taking back the reigns felt good, comforting even. “You’re a bigger girl than Sammy, and I’ll be damned if I apologized to him in your place. You’re gonna do that yourself, in person. Knowing my brother, he’ll probably want to do all that hugging stuff, and I’m definitely not going to act as a stand-in for you there.”

Castiel looked surprised and slightly taken aback by Dean’s uncharacteristic pep speech. In fact, he didn’t even know how to react, which gave Dean ample time to take out his phone and go for speed dial.

“What are you doing?” Castiel asked when he’d regained his voice.

“I’m calling Sam,” Dean replied, listening to the dialing tone, “I didn’t raise a cheeky genius for nothing.”


	9. Chapter 8

There was no question in Dean’s mind that their latest plan sucked. Well, not that it was much of a plan to begin with. It was more of a desperate move, though Sam, Stanford kid that he was, had insisted it was the right and sensible thing to do. Castiel didn’t really have an opinion on the matter, and Dean had found himself yelling at him for being such a goddamn sucker for crap like fate and destiny, when not even a year before, he’d been willing to go all berserk over the notion of Free Will. But the angel had just shrugged in resignation, so Dean had decided that not even the crackpot idea of paying Amelia Novak a visit could possibly make things worse.

_Boy, had he been wrong._

Castiel didn’t even climb the stairs to the porch of Jimmy’s house, clearly uncomfortable in his— _well_ —skin, and Dean still didn’t have the slightest idea what they were going to tell her when he pressed the doorbell. He was already half-hoping Amelia wasn’t home when they heard footsteps approaching. Then the door opened, revealing the familiar face of a small woman wearing jeans and a thin, worn-out jersey.

“It’s you.”

Amelia Novak’s expression was blank. There was a spark of recognition in her eyes, but other than that, Dean couldn’t tell whether she was surprised to see them. She hadn’t changed much since the last time they’d met: a beautiful woman, a little too skinny for his taste, with pale blue eyes and full, round lips. Jimmy Novak might have been a pious man, but he apparently had a mind for the finer things as well.

Dean smirked inwardly, biting his lip. _Stop thinking stuff like that, man_ , he told himself, feeling slightly ashamed of his mind’s misguided digressions. And indeed, looking closer, there was no mistaking what the woman had gone through. There were numerous lines drawn deep around the corners of her mouth, and shadows clouding her still youthful features.

“Yeah, well,” he replied, sounding somewhat guilty, “ill weeds grow apace, I guess.”

His mouth twitched in an awkward smile, which earned him a reproachful glance from Sam.

“We are very sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Novak.”

And there it was, his baby-brother’s finest attempt at bitch-face #278, probably filed under: _Everyone knows you’re emotionally constipated, so you better let me handle this._

“You better be.” Amelia’s features hardened. “I don’t want—”

Her words came to an unexpected halt, then her chin started quivering violently.

“Please,” she whispered, sounding desperate, “please understand I’ve had enough of this. It’s over now, and I—I just can’t.”

Amelia shook her head, fingers twisting in her hair until whole strands were pulled from the bun in her neck. Dean glanced helplessly at Castiel, but the angel was still standing a few feet away on the driveway, eyes locked to the ground as if he’d found a new species with more legs than even an angel brain could count. Suddenly, Dean felt white hot anger creeping up his spine. Jimmy Novak had been a good man, and he’d given his life for Castiel’s shenanigans. Whatever means of persuasion the angel had used with Jimmy, Dean was pretty sure he hadn’t told him the whole truth: namely that he was planning to use his body to rebel against Heaven, get himself killed, and end up doing something as blasphemous as playing God. The realization tasted bitter in his mouth, and Dean found himself wondering whether they actually had the right to ask Amelia to spare her husband’s body for someone who’d done nothing to deserve the sacrifice.

When Amelia started sobbing in earnest, Dean turned away.

 _Let Sam handle that kind of stuff_.

Not that Dean wasn’t affected, of course. He sure as Hell was, but he was also convinced everything he could possibly say would only make things worse.

In an attempt to distract himself, he gave Castiel a pointed stare, trying to draw out a reaction. But the angel didn’t look up. He just stood there, shoulders in a slump, and hands hanging loosely at his side.

_Oh God, Dean wanted to punch him in the face!_

Except that there was something else, something new Dean was not yet familiar with. Maybe he should have recognized it right away, but he’d been too busy interpreting his friend’s attitude as angelic indifference to see the truth. Castiel was displaying a perfectly human emotion: shame.

Before he could further contemplate the matter, Sam’s elbow collided with his ribcage, redirecting his attention.

“We are sorry, Amelia,” he said, resting a pacifying hand on her arm. “But we really need to talk to you. It’s important.”

“It’s about Jimmy,” Dean added. His voice sounded hollow.

Amelia took a deep breath, obviously struggling to regain her composure. Shaking off Sam’s hand, she stepped back into the house. “Listen, there is nothing you still could—”

“We know.” Before he even knew it, Dean had his foot pressed against the door frame. “And we promise we won’t ever trouble you again, but please give us a minute and hear us out.”

He must have sounded pleading, desperate. Maybe his eyes belied something he didn’t have words to express. But Amelia’s expression shifted, a slight frown between her eyebrows, and then she was opening the door and stepped aside to let them in.

“Alright. Come in.”

Only when Dean looked over his shoulder to see if Castiel was following them, he heard her add: “Though I’ll probably regret it.”

“I can’t say this comes as a surprise, to be honest.”

Amelia’s fingers wrapped tight around the teacup she was holding, eyes fixed on the steaming brew.

“The nurse, you know. She told me Jimmy had two of his friends visiting him, and I figured it must have been you. Jimmy hasn’t been around for a long time and he never—” She cut herself short and sighed, “well, never mind.”

Amelia seemed more composed now, but Dean could still detect a nervous flicker in her eyes. For a split-second, he’d thought her gaze had come to rest upon Castiel, but then realized she was just staring at a picture of Jimmy set up on the mantelpiece behind the angel. Suddenly, Dean found it hard to tear his eyes away. Seeing Jimmy put up against Castiel, it was almost terrifying how different they were. On the photo, Jimmy was relaxed and smiling, arms wrapped around his daughter Claire. Castiel, on the other hand, didn’t even know how to smile properly. His posture was always tense, and sometimes, perfectly normal human ordeals like walking or moving his hands seemed to require conscious effort. But then, he was Cas. Nerdy, socially awkward Cas who’d been abandoned by his daddy and subsequently drowned his sorrow in a liquor store. Cas, who’d set out to get himself killed for what he considered the greater good. Cas, who’d fucked up big time, but was still standing… sort of.

Sounds like a Winchester, Dean thought, and almost grinned at how ridiculously proud the observation made him.

Thankfully, his brother gave him a subtle nudge with his foot, forcing him back into the conversation.

“Jimmy,” Sam began, wringing his hands, “well, Amelia. That’s actually why we came to see you. We have reason to believe—we know Jimmy is no longer in there.”

Amelia laughed mirthlessly.

“You came to tell me that?”

“Well, we—,” Dean began, but was cut short.

“As if this is something I wouldn’t know! Do you believe I ever expected him to return other than an empty shell?”

Dean cringed at the cold and distant sound of her voice.

“This angel bastard… I knew he could not be trusted. Have you ever seen his eyes? They were so cold and empty, like ice. My husband—Jimmy... he was just like a jacket for him. One you put on for dinner and then discard. When Jimmy got shot, when he took Claire. He didn’t even blink. What kind of creature is that?”

When she put her teacup down, brownish liquid splashed across the table.

“If there is a God, this thing has nothing to do with him. He’s a monster and he killed my husband.”

“But how come you’re still here? When we left, the demons were after you. And I remember telling you there was no going back.”

They’d been wondering about it all along, and now that Amelia was talking about the fateful day of their first meeting, Sam’s curiosity clearly got the better of him.

Amelia swallowed.

“You mean after you left us, with no place to go, and no one to turn to?”

There could be no doubt she was trying to guilt-trip them. And _Hell_ , did it work!

“We went to a motel, but when we were getting ready to move out of the country, that creature returned. He said he’d done something to our house, and that we could come home if we wanted to. So we did.”

“Cas?” Dean mouthed, but the angel didn’t do anything to indicate he’d even heard Amelia’s words. He’d had no idea Castiel had returned to the Novaks and done who knows what. Probably put up sigils and protection charms around their house, possibly around all of Pontiac. For a short moment, Dean actually felt proud of his friend.

“He might have tried to keep us safe,” she went on, “but he never gave us back my Jimmy. Now the only thing left for me to do is give him peace and put his body to rest. And please don’t come telling me he doesn’t deserve it.”

Dean looked at his brother, lost for words.

“No,” he finally said. “We’d never suggest such a thing. But—”

“There is no but. Everything’s settled and that’s the last you’ll hear me say about it. Claire and I —we finally got our lives back. We moved on, and… please, let us have this.”

Once she stopped talking about Castiel, her voice lost its edge. Now she was pleading again, almost begging to be left with whatever fragile peace she’d found for herself. And Dean felt horrible for taking it away from her.

“Please leave and stay out of our lives.” She leaned forward, looking him in the eye, and Dean was on the verge of standing up and leaving when suddenly, Castiel spoke up.

“Please let me talk to her.”

Dean spun around on the couch.

“What?”

The angel was still standing beside the mantelpiece, slightly shaken, but determined.

“I feel I owe her an apology. Will you—?”

Amelia was staring at him as if he’d lost his mind. Considering the fact he was talking to an invisible presence, it was probably the most convenient explanation.

“Cas, I don’t think this is—,” he began. But then, Castiel lowered his head and looked at him in such obvious devastation that he felt himself being overpowered. “Alright,” he sighed, “say what you need to say and I’ll pass it on.”

“Amelia—” He turned to her, resting his forearms on his thighs.

“What’s happening? Whom are you talking to?”

“I figure this is quite… difficult to explain.”

He looked down at his hands, studying his broken nails.

“Castiel is still with us, and he has a message for you.”

Amelia’s eyes went wide, but her surprise was only momentary.

“You know, I wish I could just call you nuts and throw you out.” She sighed deeply, shaking her head in defeat. “But knowing it’s entirely possible this abomination is still around somewhere while my husband is long dead and gone, I want you to tell him that… he can shove his message up his heavenly ass.”

The words didn’t suit her and Castiel actually flinched. Deciding their conversation was futile anyways, Dean gestured dismissively, but the angel remained insistent.

“Tell her I am—” His gaze traveled to Jimmy’s picture on the mantelpiece. “I’m sorry. More than I can possibly make her see.”

“He apologizes to you,” Dean repeated. “He says he’s sorry.”

Amelia snorted.

“I suppose he would be. After Jimmy’s body apparently reached its date of expiry.”

Dean watched Castiel’s hand grab his own wrist, squeezing violently. When he spoke again, his voice was even deeper than usual, grave and rough like sandpaper.

“I want her to know… her and Claire, that I realize no apology will ever be enough. But if I could go back, I swear I’d give my own life for Jimmy’s.”

There could be no doubt he actually meant it. Dean looked at him for a long moment, hoping for… _whatever_ , but Castiel just nodded. Sam leaned over to his brother, maybe trying to read from his face what Castiel had said, but Dean was still struggling to find the appropriate words.

“He’s saying that if he got another chance, he’d save your husband’s life. Even at the cost of his own.”

For a moment, they all sat in silence. Then, without warning, Amelia slumped forward, cradling her head in her hands.

“I am sorry,” she sobbed, “so sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. I don’t know what you’re here for, but it’s too late anyways. I’ve already signed the papers.”

When she started crying in earnest, even Sam’s intuitive talent for handling all things touchy-feely seemed to reach its limits. Not that Dean could blame him, of course. And Castiel… _well_ , to say he looked as if he’d have disappeared if he could was probably an understatement. He looked like someone who was absolutely prepared to cut his own limbs off, tear his eyes out, or do equally gruesome things, just to make it stop. While Dean was still struggling to decide who needed his attention first, a door banged and a man entered the room.

“Amelia,” he exclaimed, “oh my God!”

They had barely processed what was happening when he was already kneeling by her side, a gigantic arm wrapped around her shoulders.

“Amelia, are you alright?” His voice was soft, soothing. “What’s going on here?”

Only then, he became aware of the Winchesters’ presence.

“And who are these people?”

“We are—,” Sam began, but Amelia beat him to it. She probably feared, Dean figured, they might reveal something she didn’t want the man—presumably her boyfriend—to know.

“They are friends, Rob. Of Jimmy’s.”

Rob, whoever he was, looked slightly dumbfounded. He examined them with a scrutinizing glare that sent Dean on a flashback to his high school years. Football practice… _yeah_ , the guy definitely looked like a football coach.

“Friends of Jimmy?” His voice was a low rumble. “Well, I think it’s better if you go now.”

The frown on his face was so deep his eyebrows actually connected. This wasn’t a friendly request, and Sam and Dean were not stupid enough to assume it was.

“Amelia needs to rest. If you guys care to wait outside? I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Clearly, Rob’s politeness only served to convey the hidden meaning “Fuck off, but don’t you dare escape before I’m done with you.” Sam seemed to have jumped to the same conclusion. When he was dragged to his feet, Dean had barely time to check if the angel was following them. Only when they were back in the hallway, he noticed that Castiel looked as if he’d been crying.

 

“Listen, I have no idea who you are and what you’re here for.”

When Rob appeared in front of them, arms akimbo, Dean immediately regretted his decision to stay. The guy was larger than he’d figured, almost as large as Sammy, but easily twice his girth. If he actually thought they’d been harassing his woman, there was a good chance this wasn’t going to end pretty.

“What I do know is that you’ve upset a poor woman who’s been having a rough time lately.”

“We’re very sorry about that.” Jerk or not, there was no denying the guy apparently cared about Amelia. And he was right, in a way. She probably didn’t deserve a rumble in the hallway, so they’d rather play nice. “Jimmy and us, we share a friend who asked us to check on her.”

“We realize it wasn’t such a great idea,” Sam added, his expression suitably guilt-ridden.

To Dean’s astonishment, Rob’s expression softened. So maybe he wasn’t _that_ kind of coach, after all.

“Well, guys,” he said, sounding almost apologetic. “I’m sorry about your loss. But you have to understand Amelia. Jimmy was gone for such a long time, and then, suddenly… _poof_!”

Castiel winced. _Poor guy_ , Dean thought. The angel clearly had some rather unpleasant memories of exploding, even though this was probably not what Rob had been referring to.

“There he was, found naked on the shore of some lake in Idaho. Obviously, he’s been through a lot… too much, it seems.”

Rob shook his head, apparently shaken by his own account.

“The decision’s been hard for her, but we agree it’s for the best if we let him find peace. It’ll be over in two days. And then, hopefully, Amelia and Claire will finally get a chance to move on.”

He was right, Dean realized. Amelia and Claire Novak deserved every chance they could get of ever reclaiming a normal and happy life. Except that… didn’t Castiel, too?

“But is there really—,” he rambled, desperately clutching at any straw he could reach, “I mean, have you made sure there’s absolutely nothing that could be done?”

“There isn’t.”

There was finality to Rob’s voice, hardly allowing for more than a rushed goodbye.

“We—,” Sam tried anyways, but by then, Rob had already shoved them towards the door.

“Goodbye, gentlemen. And I sincerely hope I’ll never see you in this house again.”

 

The aftermath of the episode was worse than Dean had anticipated. If Castiel had believed his death was for the better before they’d spoken with Amelia, it was obvious he now thought he deserved it.

They were sitting on Dean’s bed in a rather decent motel at the outskirts of Pontiac, trying to digest their latest failure. Even Sam had been affected, though Dean wasn’t sure what was going through his brother’s mind. Due to Castiel's presence, they hadn’t really gotten a chance to talk in private, and Dean still couldn’t tell whether Sam was actually comfortable with the angel’s return. While driving back to the motel, he’d been quiet and mumbling to himself, scaring the pants off Dean, but when he’d addressed his strange behavior, Sam had only shrugged and told him he’d let him know when he’d figured it out.

As soon as they’d entered the motel room, he’d brought out his laptop and started searching for who knows what. From time to time, Dean saw him taking down notes, but other than that, he still acted as if he’d found a way to track down the Holy Grail.

He appeared okay, though. Something that could not be said for Castiel.

“You did everything you could, man,” Dean argued. “It’s not your fault Raphael has this strange obsession with ripping you apart.”

“It wasn’t Jimmy’s war to fight,” he retorted blankly, unable to make eye contact. “I should have returned him to his family and found another way.”

“There wasn’t another way, you and I know that.”

To that Castiel said nothing, just hunched forward a little more until his chin was almost touching his chest.

“Hey, look at me!”

Dean suppressed the growing urge to get hold of Castiel’s face and force him to meet his gaze.

“I don’t mind dying. I can accept that this body’s time is over. But I still wish whoever’s brought me back had given me a chance to right some of the wrong I’ve done.”

Dean sighed.

“Oh please, don’t start that again.”

At that, Castiel snapped.

“What are you planning to do, Dean? Sell your soul and go to Hell?”

“Maybe,” Dean said maliciously. “Yeah, maybe I should sell my soul, then bring you back so I can finish you off again myself! And then we can spend an eternity together. On the rack!”

“Not going to hate on your kinky plan there,” Sam suddenly interjected, and Dean felt himself blushing, “but did you know that taking care of an unconscious body is not all that complicated if you have the necessary equipment?”

“How would you know?” Dean asked, unable to tell where his brother was going with this. “Not going to hate on all the science stored behind your massive brow, but last time I checked, you were into law, not medical training.”

“I did some research.” Sam sniffed, sounding slightly offended. “And as I said, it’s not all that complicated. We just need some stuff—” He tapped on the notes he’d been scribbling down. “But that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Hold on for a second.” Dean stared at his brother in rapt attention. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded, a grin spreading across his features.

“We’re going to abduct Castiel’s body!”


	10. Chapter 9

Dean thought it was a little strange how they’d ended up sitting on the shore of a lake. It wasn’t a particularly big lake, more of a pond really, but there was still an awful lot of water. Thing was, if he’d been the one to have been drowned only recently, he’d have been avoiding that particular element like the plague. But for some unfathomable reason, Castiel didn’t seem to mind. He’d even been the one to suggest they sit down on that particular bench in the first place, leaving Dean no choice but to comply with a lifted eyebrow and a shrug.

Now Castiel just sat there beneath the swaying branches of a willow tree, hands folded in his lap. His eyes were fixed on a point Dean couldn’t determine at first, but then found to be an old man in a small rowboat, holding a fishing rod. The image seemed to appeal to Castiel, and even Dean felt himself drawn to the peace it emanated. For some minutes, they sat there in companionable silence, watching the sunrays flicker across the water and listening to the happy cackling of the ducks. The whole thing was ridiculously domestic, and Dean thought it should have felt considerably weirder than it actually did. But then, he was just spending time with a friend.

_A friend, who, incidentally, used to be an angel turned God and was now fighting a very human battle against the confines of his slowly deteriorating body._

It occurred to Dean he must have been staring when Castiel turned to give him a twitch of his lips apparently meant to resemble a smile. A slight breeze rustled through the drooping branches, but Castiel remained unmoved, like an image carved from marble. It was a painful reminder of the fact that he wasn’t really there, not a part of this world, but caught between the living and a place Dean didn’t really want to think about.

“You know, my dad… he was kind of a jerk.” The words were out before Dean even knew he’d been planning to speak at all. “But that’s not what he was actually like. Not really. I guess that’s why I never lost faith. Because I knew he was still there, somewhere deep down, beneath all that grief and craptalk about vengeance and shit.”

Castiel looked at him curiously, like even his all-knowing angel brain couldn’t determine where Dean was going with this. And who could blame him, really?

Dean Winchester was full of memories, more than he could stomach at times, and most of them were not exactly of the happy sort. But there was one—a very special one at that—that had been lost for a long time. He didn’t have a clue where it suddenly came from, but maybe it had been there all along, waiting patiently in some hidden corner of his mind until it decided to spill out of him. Right there, on the shore of a nameless lake in Pontiac, with a ghost sitting beside him and the world feeling like it was going to end all over again.

“During the summer before the demon… before my mom died, my dad announced he’d teach me how to fish.” He smiled fondly, as if he’d finally found the answer to a question he didn’t even know he’d been asking. “Yeah, that’s what my dad was like. He got his mind set on something, and there was no freakin’ way anyone could keep him from following through with it.”

He slapped his thigh for emphasis.

“So one evening, he was talking ‘bout taking me fishin’, and the next morning, we were sitting in the car, heading for Lake Clinton. You know, it’s near Lawrence and there’s—”

“I know every place on this planet, Dean,” Castiel interrupted, only the tiniest trace of impatience in his voice.

Dean smiled.

“I’m fairly sure you don’t know Sid Compton’s shack. It’s right at the shore, but it still feels like you’re in the middle of a forest, trees and all. I thought it was like one of those fairy tale places.” He stopped, considering his words. “Might have been a little afraid, too. Witches, you know. And back then, I didn’t even know they really existed.”

_Yeah, good times._

Castiel appeared to contemplate the matter, then said thoughtfully: “I don’t understand why humans are afraid of forests. I think they are very peaceful places.”

“Yeah, Cas. They are. But they are also-” Suddenly, there was another memory, stronger than the last one, and he shuddered.

“I dunno, sometimes they make you dread getting lost.”

He’d never really spoken about that particular day, not even to Sammy. He didn’t know why it even bothered him, considering it turned out to be rather uneventful in comparison. But for some weird, unfathomable reason, it had always been right there, in that secret place reserved for Hell, and losing Sammy, and Castiel walking into that fuckin’ lake.

“I remember that one time,” he slowly began, “when I was eleven, my dad dropped me in the middle of the woods and drove away.”

He found himself moving away from Castiel until he was almost sitting on the far edge of the bench. His fingers locked around his kneecaps, and when he looked down, he found his knuckles white from pressure.

“It was meant to be a test, I think. Maybe it was punishment. I do not really remember that part.”

He did, but a man could only handle so much.

“It started out pretty simple. During the first hour or so, I was damn sure I was walking into the right direction. _Just keep your eyes to the ground and follow the car tracks._ He’d trained me well, you know?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. If he had any opinion on John Winchester’s parenting methods, he kept it to himself and Dean was grateful for it.

“But then there were other roads crossing, and too many tracks for me to know which one had been left by my dad’s car. I tried to go by instinct.” He shrugged. “That soon proved to be elusive, of course. I must have walked for hours, but the only thing I seemed to achieve was getting deeper into the woods. And then it got dark, and I was sure I wouldn’t make it out alive.”

He still remembered the dread he’d felt at the realization he was going to die. But he also remembered how it had been less about himself than it had been about his dad and Sammy, and how he’d failed them so miserably.

“I was surrounded by strange sounds. They were everywhere, cracking and crying and howling.”

He sat up and started twisting his fingers, unable to shake off the cold that crept up his spine.

“It was the whole fuckin’ forest coming to life. At some point, I actually started to believe the branches were reaching out for me. I pictured them grabbing me. Pulling me into the deadwood where I’d be trapped forever.”

His voice faltered, the soft breeze turning into a disquieting reminder of claw-like twigs and branches scraping down his neck.

“I think I know that feeling,” Castiel said quietly.

Dean looked up and their eyes met halfway across the bench. There was no mistaking they were no longer talking about a childhood memory, not really. And the funny thing was: Dean had been completely oblivious of all the hidden meanings conveyed in his story, all the things he hadn’t known how to say, until he’d found them mirrored in that ridiculously blue eyes now staring back at him.

“I still kept on walking,” Dean rambled on, his tongue heavy in his mouth, “and I think I may have been running when I saw the headlights.”

He swallowed visibly, suddenly eager to get it over with.

“You see, my dad came and picked me up. Didn’t say a word, though. I think he was disappointed with me, but I was so happy to see him I didn’t give a damn. He got me out, and that was the only thing that mattered at the time.”

His eyes traveled across the lake, clinging to the small rowboat as if the sight was the most fascinating thing in the world. Despite the fact his friend was not actually a corporeal entity, he felt Castiel shifting closer, invading his personal space in that peculiar way of his. Dean thought it was as much of an angel thing as it was part of Castiel’s personality. Which was odd, seeing it had never really occurred to him the angel even had such a thing. And then, before Dean had ample time to ponder on all the implications the gesture held, Castiel’s hand came to rest upon his shoulder, and he could actually feel it, radiating warmth and a tingling sensation that might have been a special ghost-thing, or something else entirely.

“He shouldn’t have left you there in the first place.”

His voice was rough but steady, and Dean found himself leaning into the comforting presence of his touch. Castiel’s thumb started drawing little circles across the worn fabric of his father’s old leather jacket, and Dean was just about to say that maybe they should leave it there, but apparently, his big mouth had an existence separate from his brains.

“I am sorry, Cas. I truly am.”

It wasn’t like Castiel didn’t have his reasons to be sorry. Man, Dean wasn’t even sure anyone had messed up like that, ever since some misguided individuals had decided to build the Tower of Babel. But then, Dean knew exactly how it felt when you were left all on your own, with no compass to guide you, and no friend to take your hand and lead you out. Hell, you could even say he had invented the problem.

Castiel looked at him, smiling one of his enigmatic half-smiles. And then he shrugged—actually _shrugged_ —saying:

“You got me out. That’s all that counts.”

Maybe Dean blushed. He hoped he didn’t, but the disquieting feeling was enough to convince him he needed to stop this conversation at all costs, lest he didn’t want to go this moment all chick-flick.

“Well, alright,” he said awkwardly, rolling his shoulders to give his friend a not so subtle hint it was maybe time to take his hand away. Surprisingly enough, the angel got the message and backed away. He even managed to look a little embarrassed about it, and so did Dean, if mainly for the fact he missed the physical contact.

“Seems I got carried away a little,” he finally resumed. Maybe his voice was a little too loud and a little too high-pitched, but thankfully, Castiel didn’t seem inclined to press the matter.

“I actually wanted to talk about Lake Clinton and how my dad taught me how to fish. His friend Sidney had a little rowboat, so we got up really early and rowed out on the lake.”  
  
He stopped and considered his words for a moment.

“Well, I guess my dad did most of the rowing, but back then, he was a really great dad, so he made me feel as if I’d done most of the work. I was just four. And I was mighty proud.”

He hadn’t even realized he was smiling until he found Castiel’s expression lightening up as well. There was something genuinely happy about the little wrinkles spreading round the corner of his eyes, and… _fuck_ , why was he even thinking that?

“And then I really caught my first fish,” he quickly went on, adamant on keeping his gaze off Castiel’s lips.

“Or you could say it rather caught me. Dad helped me get it out, but you know how it is. I was a kid and the fish was alive and struggling.”

His fingers itched with the memory of that first time he’d actually held another creature’s life in his hands.

“So we threw it back in and it swam away. I think dad was a little pissed, seeing he was looking forward to having it for lunch and all, but I was still proud. Because I saved that fish. Kids are silly, aren’t they?”

“I am glad you saved that fish, Dean.”

Castiel bowed his head in appreciation. He looked almost grateful, and though Dean couldn’t quite figure out why, he was glad his story had struck a chord somehow.

“Sometimes God has great plans, even for something as small and innocuous as a fish,” Castiel said enigmatically.

And then, he decided to continue his quest for violating Dean’s boundaries and laid his hand atop of his. It wasn’t as if they were holding hands-you couldn’t hold hands with a ghost, right?-and no one could see it anyways, but it was still weird enough for Dean to almost choke on the lump forming in his throat before saying something entirely stupid and pointless.

“So I’m gathering you’re not into fishing yourself?”

If there had been a wall somewhere nearby, Dean was sure he’d have smacked his head against it.

Castiel, however, didn’t seem inclined to linger on the question’s absurdity for long. Which was rare, especially for an angel with the indisputable tendency to take everything in the literal sense.

“I guess it’s alright if you throw the fishes back in.”

Dean blinked. Once, twice, but before he could decide whether Castiel had actually been joking, his fingers locked with his. And really, there was nothing funny about that, considering there was no denying they were holding hands now.

“You’re a weird one, you know that?” _Alright_ , it was probably not the most appropriate thing to say either. But with that mysterious lump in his throat and the ache in his chest, he was surprised he was able to speak at all. “Even for an angel… or an angel-ghost.”

Dean Winchester was really not into chick flick moments. Also, sharing childhood memories was definitely not on the list of things he considered an appropriate past time between buddies. Nor was holding hands. But he still turned his hand so his palm was facing upwards, intertwining their fingers. It totally felt like ripping off his own balls, but Castiel, bastard that he was, looked entirely too pleased with himself.

And who was Dean to deny him the favor?

“But we could still roast some marshmallows, right?” he finally asked, deciding he’d spent enough time staring at their joined fingers. “Because that’s what we-me and my dad-ended up doing. No fishes, and all…”

Castiel tilted his head, and Dean could almost see how the gears in his imaginary brain failed to click into place.

“What’s a marshmallow?”

So Dean ended up explaining the concept of roasting marshmallows on an open fire. He described the questionable experience of sleeping in a sleeping bag, and how much scarier a ghost story got if you told it with a flashlight pointed at your face. He wasn’t sure if Castiel got even half of it, but he seemed happy enough with Dean talking so he just kept on until every happy memory he still held of that particular trip had poured out of him.

When there was nothing left to relate, his eyes traveled back to the lone angler. The sun had gone down, coating the sky in an eerie orange hue that was extending across the lake, but the man didn’t seem to get tired of his task. For a moment, just the fraction of a second really, Dean felt the almost overwhelming urge to rest his head against Castiel’s shoulder. It was then that the angel chose to look at him with a face so full of sadness and regret that reality came crashing back with the subtle force of a medium-sized truck.

“We’ll do it. You know that, right?” Dean said fervently, straightening his back. “When this is all over… when you got your body back, and your stupid trench coat and that angel mojo of yours, we’ll go camping.”

Castiel’s grip tightened around his, and Dean found himself rambling on, because it was the only thing he could think of to keep himself from losing it.

“We’re gonna catch some fish and throw them back into the lake, we’ll eat marshmallows until we get sick, and I’ll tell you some of the goriest ghost stories I can think of.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel whispered, his eyes half-closed as if he was still reveling in the words.

“No thank yous. As I said, it’s gonna happen.”

Deep down, Dean knew it was unlikely. Jimmy’s—Castiel’s body was still laid up in hospital, and even if tomorrow’s plan worked out, they had no guarantee he’d ever wake up. But then, it was close to impossible Castiel was here now, sitting on the bench, holding his hand. He still was. Someone had to be responsible for all of that, even Dean could tell as much. And he really didn’t have an awful lot of faith. So if that someone was not a complete dick—

“Deal?” he said, his voice a lot more confident than he actually felt.

“Deal.” Castiel’s reply came without hesitation.

And then his head somehow ended up resting against Dean’s shoulder.


	11. Chapter 10

“Idjits,” Bobby mumbled into his beard, eyes fixed on the road ahead. The old ambulance roared when he floored the gas pedal to speed across a junction, shooting threatening glares at whoever dared to block their way.

The old hunter had spent the whole night driving, all the way from Sioux Falls to Pontiac, but despite his continuously voiced misgivings, Dean knew they were all acting in concert when it came to saving Castiel’s life. When they’d called Bobby the day before, he hadn’t even asked for proof, just started preparing the panic room in his house which was to serve as Castiel’s hiding place until they’d found a way to cure his body. He’d also organized the ambulance, and part of the medical equipment featured on Sam’s list. The Winchester brothers had taken care of the rest, including the theft of scrubs. And now, less than one day after their plan was conceived, they were heading towards Pontiac Memorial Hospital to get their friend out.

Notwithstanding Dean’s objections, Castiel had paid his body another visit, so he could learn about working hours and shift changes. In the end, he’d deduced that the best time to get the body would be during shift change at 7 pm. Part of the staff would already have gone home by then, and the rest was anxious to do so.

Considering they’d only had one day to prepare their makeshift plan, Dean thought they’d done remarkably well. Bobby was an utterly convincing driver, and Sam probably got considerable enjoyment out of his impersonating a doctor. Dean had settled with playing the paramedic, so he could join his brother when it came to getting Castiel’s body out of the hospital.

“Where should I drive?” Bobby asked on approaching Pontiac Memorial.

“Emergency department,” Dean said, checking with Castiel, who nodded in agreement. “Park the car and switch on the emergency lights.”

When Bobby had found a suitable place to park, both Sam and Dean jumped out of the ambulance and went straight to the registration desk. The nurse on duty was young and rather pretty, with full lips and blond hair tied into a bun. Dean gave her his most enticing smile, but was greeted without much enthusiasm.

“What do you have for us?” she asked, the slightest trace of annoyance in her voice.

 _Perfect timing_ , Dean thought, shooting Castiel an approving look. Obviously, he’d done an excellent job in choosing the right time for their little maneuver. The nurse looked like she wanted nothing more than go home and spend some time with her boyfriend, or whatever it was she did on a free evening.

“Nothing, we’ve come to fetch a patient,” Sam replied, sounding all business-like. “I am Dr. Bronswick, a consultant of PAO medical. I’ve come to fetch James Novak and relocate him to Bloomington City Hospital.”

The nurse typed something on her computer, apparently checking the patient’s identity. When she found they were indeed treating a James Novak, she nodded approvingly.

“Alright. Do you have the papers?”

“There you go.”

Dean stepped forward and handed her a bunch of very official looking documents. Bobby had taken great care to make them look like the real deal. The nurse, however, seemed skeptic. For a moment, Dean panicked, trying to determine where they’d gone wrong when he found she was more interested in the sheer mass of papers, rather than their contents.

Obviously, she was majorly pissed she’d now have to take care of the formalities, despite the fact her shift would officially end in five minutes.

“This will take at least half an hour,” she stated sullenly, tapping a bright pink nail at the documents.

“I’m sorry for the trouble,” Sam apologized. “We had to take care of another patient before.”

Dean couldn’t see the look he gave her, but it apparently reached its goal.

“Alright,” she sighed, features softening, “the patient’s in room 505, fifth floor. You may go inside and fetch him. In the meantime, I’m gonna get the papers ready and signed. When I’m done, I’ll hand them to your driver.” She nodded in the direction of Bobby who pretended to doze in the driver’s seat. “I’ll also inform the nurse taking over my shift, so he’ll know about the relocation.”

“Thanks a lot!”

She shrugged, apparently unable to share Sam’s enthusiasm.

“I’m gonna get the stretcher,” Dean offered, winking at the nurse to pretend he was equally annoyed with Dr. Bronswick’s schedule.

Sam gave a curt nod in his direction, then turned back to the desk.

“Maybe in the meantime, you could prepare Mr. Novak's medical report.”

“Medical report?” The nurse seemed slightly confused at Sam’s request.

“Yeah. But please take your time. You can hand it to the driver, along with the other papers.”

“The medical record has to remain here,” she said indignantly. “It will be sent to you by mail. You should know that!”

Suddenly, she seemed a little hesitant.

_Shitshitshit!_

“Of course we know that,” Dean answered, leaving the stretcher in front of the entrance to join Sam at the desk, “we just need the most recent data: cardio-vascular levels, haemogram, electrolytes, hematocrit… the usual.”

“Exactly.”

Sam nodded emphatically, then gave her a belittling smile as if to question her expertise.

The nurse bit her lip and pretended to recheck the papers.

“How do you know all this stuff?” Sam whispered at Dean, looking astonished.

Dean grinned.

“You definitely need to start watching Dr. Sexy M.D., dude.”

“You can look at the report in his room,” the nurse interrupted their moment. “Do I need to take you upstairs?”

“No need for that,” Dean replied cheerfully. “We’ve been here before.”

He turned his back to the nurse and gave Bobby the thumbs up, then took hold of the stretcher and passed through the door.

“You really don’t need to do this—” Castiel began when they were walking down the corridor together. Dean rolled his eyes, but his answer came quick and without hesitation.

“Cas, look, you were the one that saved me. And now it’s my turn to save you. Okay?”

 

The nurse at the reception desk watched the strange duo heading towards the elevator, curiously observing how one of them—the smaller one—leaned over to his right side and pretended to talk to someone. Except that apart from Dr. Bronswick, there was no one he could possibly be talking to. She took another look at the papers, furrowed her brow, and reached for the phone.

Two calls later, she pressed the emergency button.

“This is Hannah Rushton,” she said, all wired up, “emergency ward. We need security on the fifth floor.”

 

Dean almost couldn’t believe things had gone smoothly so far. They’d safely unplugged all the devices and exchanged them for mobile ones, then gotten Castiel out of his room.

The corridor was deserted. This time, not a single nurse had crossed their way, meaning no uncomfortable questions had been asked. Dean almost regretted none of the stories they’d so carefully rehearsed had yet come into play. Still, he knew the lump in his chest wouldn’t disappear until Castiel's body was safely tugged between the sheets at Bobby’s.

All of a sudden, they could hear footsteps coming their way.

“Don't jostle. But go faster,” Sam hissed. “To the elevator!”

But it was already too late.

“Hey you!” a voice called.

And then, two massive guys in black suits appeared out of nowhere.

 _Security guards_ , Dean’s brain registered. He turned to strike, but one of the men had already gripped his arms.

“Shit!” he yelled.

“Hold it,” his captor growled, tightening his iron grip. “We need you to—”

Dean looked up in desperation, finding Sam had also been caught.

“Run!” Castiel shouted, looking nervously between his body and the brothers. “Run and leave me here!”

Even if they’d considered his advice, it wouldn’t have changed a thing. Though Dean managed to momentarily shake off his captor by kicking his shin, another two security guards were coming up from the staircase and pressed him back against the wall.

“Stop! Stop! Stop! Hold it!” Dean protested.

“Dean!” Despite being held down, Dean managed to turn his head, just in time to see Castiel staring at him in panic.

“Cas!”  

“Dean! I think something is happening.”

Then he saw it. The curve displayed on the small heart monitor next to Castiel’s head was alarmingly fast approaching a straight line. And even Dean with his limited medical knowledge knew what that meant.

 “Hey,” Dean yelled at the guards, “you need to check on him. Don’t you see that—”

“It’s too late, Dean. It’s happening.”

Dean could only watch in shock how Castiel’s image was getting fainter and fainter, barely noticeable in the dimly lit corridor.

“No,” Dean screamed, trying his best to shrug of the security guard, but the man was much stronger than himself. And he was armed, something they’d forgotten to consider.

“It's strong,” Castiel said faintly.

“Be stronger,” Dean pleaded.

“It's pulling me away.”

“Please, Cas! Stay with me!”

“Dean, I—”

Dean never learned what he had been about to say.

“Give me a sedative,” his captor yelled, and out of the corner of his eye Dean could see a doctor approaching.

“Help him!” Dean screamed.

“Gimme five of Haldol.”

“Sam!”

“Hold him,” the doctor said, getting the injection ready.

“No! Castiel, I need you! Please— ”

 

Meanwhile, over by the vending machine, a small man in scrubs watched the scene with growing amusement. It had taken them long enough, but finally… _ah well_ , Daddy would be pleased. And the look on the elder Winchester’s face was definitely worth playing cupid for a little while. Though one would think that he’d better things to do, restoring order in Heaven and all.

But then, who was he to argue with God about his favorite topic: Love?

“Good luck, little brother,” he whispered, a genuine smile on his face.

Then he snapped his fingers.

 

“Oh my God, look!” Sam yelled, and the doctor all set on sedating Dean stopped mid-movement.

“Don’t—,” he began. But by then, even the security guards had taken notice something was going down.

Castiel’s body shook, then he started coughing violently.

“What's going on?” the doctor gasped, rushing to Castiel’s side. He grabbed his wrist and felt for his pulse, then looked back at the monitor. The curve was back to normal, displaying a rhythmic pattern. 

“That's not possible,” he said.

It was then Dean managed to free himself from the slightly confused guard’s grip. He rushed towards the stretcher and knelt down beside it, taking Castiel’s hand. He faintly realized the man was going after him, but was stopped by the doctor, who observed Dean with barely concealed academic intent.

“Cas?” he gasped, voice shaking. “Cas, can you hear me?”

Castiel blinked, looking ruffled and slightly confused, as if he’d just taken a nap.

“Cas, it’s me, Dean!”

Castiel looked at him with eyes wide open, confusion written all over his face.

He coughed again, then cleared his throat, as if to test his voice.

“Who are you?” he said.


	12. Epilogue

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

 

Mexican soap operas were way underrated. At least as far as Dean was concerned. With all the drama and misery they usually held, he thought them fairly accurate representations of his own life.

This was particularly true for his current favorite, the story of pretty, selfless Consuela who lost the love of her life to the insurmountable cruelty of fate.

_All her life, Consuela had been in love with her uncle’s son. Except that she’d always thought him to be her cousin, which he wasn’t, because Consuela’s aunt had found him in the trash when he was still a baby and then decided to raise him as her own son. By the time Consuela learned the truth, the cousin-that-wasn’t-actually-her-cousin was married to her best friend and had just been diagnosed with brain cancer. They confessed their love to each other during a short, memorable stay in Paris, but the moment they’d arrived at the airport of Mexico City, he was wrongly identified as a member of an anti-governmental terrorist organization and sent to prison. Consuela’s uncle finally got him out, but the day he was to be pardoned, he shot himself with a gun his wife—Consuela’s best friend—had sent him._

Dean had anxiously awaited the episode in which Consuela finally took revenge, stabbing the traitor who’d withheld the vital information from her lover, and then sought her own death. He’d aptly prepared for the event, stocked himself with ample amounts of beer and pizza, and tried to make sure Sam and Bobby would leave him in peace while he was wallowing in Consulea’s misery.

Of course, the “be left in peace” part proved to be somewhat of a problem

Dean was just getting started on his second beer, slouching on the couch, when Bobby placed his massive body in front of the TV.

“Dean, I want you to get your sorry ass up and help me in the yard. Do you think I moved Heaven and Hell to get you out of this mess, just so you can spend the rest of your life sitting on the couch— _my couch_ —watching shit?”

Dean rolled his eyes, but Bobby wasn’t done, yet. When his eyes fell on the pizza box resting on the table, he grabbed it and flung it towards the kitchen.

“Hey!” Dean yelped.

“You’re gonna get fat!”

“Who cares? And besides, you’re blocking my view.”

It was then Bobby apparently decided he’d had enough. With one swift movement, he reached behind the TV and pulled out the plug. Dean jumped up from the couch, hands balling into fists, but before things could get any more serious, the doorbell rang.

Bobby cursed, then looked around to see where he’d left his gun. Spotting it on the dresser, he went to pick it up and headed for the door.

“Don’t even think you’ve escaped my wrath!” he shouted back at Dean, then disappeared through the doorway.

Dean smirked and took a swig from his beer, hoping Bobby wasn’t going to shoot the postman or whatever innocuous creature had dared to stray into his yard. He’d just figured it was the perfect time to plug the TV back in and resume watching when he heard a noise that conspicuously sounded as if Bobby had dropped the gun.

Alarmed, Dean went on his guard and rushed outside, closely followed by Sam who’d been busy reading in the kitchen. When they arrived in the corridor, they found that Bobby had already attacked the assailant. Though it looked less like a fight than an honest-to-God attempt to squeeze the air out of the poor guy’s lungs.

Dean didn’t recognize him at first, mostly because his body was almost completely covered by Bobby’s massive figure. But when he finally spoke up, gasping out a faint “thanks, Bobby” it was beyond question whom the voice belonged to.

Looking slightly embarrassed, Bobby gave him a final pad on the back, then sent him off stumbling into the house. His hair was a tad bit longer than Dean remembered it, and the dark blue wool coat and jeans he was wearing didn’t really look like him either. Still, there could be no doubt the man before him was none other than Castiel.

“Cas!” Sam was the first to regain his voice, a broad smile spreading all over his face.

Castiel probably didn’t even know what was happening when he was pulled into yet another bear hug, this time the Sam Winchester special: _leaves none of your ribs intact._

Dean found he couldn’t really keep track with the train of events anymore, so he just stared, first at his brother, then at Bobby, and finally at Castiel. And before any of them could do something about it, he’d rushed past them and out into the cold.

 

When he came back a few minutes later, Castiel was already waiting on the porch. Bobby and Sam were nowhere to be seen, though Dean was fairly sure he saw one of the curtains moving. He kept his eyes fixed on Castiel while he was walking up to him, drinking in every single detail like he’d never get a chance to look at him again. And _Hell_ , he’d lost him so many times now he wasn’t even sure if his mind was playing tricks on him. But if it was, he at least wanted to have this, one moment to remember. Even if it was fake.

“Your overcoat,” he said, handing him the neatly folded trench coat. “I got it for you.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

He gently took it from Dean’s hands and looked at it for a while. With a smile gracing his features, he unfolded it and carefully placed it around Dean’s shoulders.

“Right now, you need it more than I do, I guess. It’s cold.”

Rendered speechless, Dean pulled the coat tight around his frame, marveling at how wonderful it felt. Just like Heaven. Or like Cas.

“How—”

“Amelia. She helped me remember. And she gave me the money for the bus.”

Dean immediately understood the implications of the simple information. If Castiel hadn’t been using angel-express, it could only mean one thing.

“So you’re not an angel anymore?”

“No, Dean. I’m human.” Castiel sounded grave, though Dean wouldn’t have expected him to be so calm about it. “Just like you.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, and Dean was overcome with the uncomfortable feeling that Castiel apparently mistook him for the epitome of humanity.

“I may not be very well versed in your customs,” Castiel went on, “but seeing that your brother and even Bobby hugged me, I thought it would be appropriate if you—”

“No, Cas.” Dean emphatically shook his head.

“No?”

Castiel shrugged back, unable to hide his disappointment at Dean’s apparent rejection. The hunter couldn’t help but smile a little. It was probably a bad idea, one of the worst in a long list of incredibly bad ideas even, but it had taken him long enough to wrap his mind around it. And he’d be damned if he didn’t try at least.

“I don’t want to hug you,” he said slowly, “because I want to do something different. But I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

He paused, blushing. “Truth be told, I’m not sure I’ll like it, but I still want to try.”

Castiel tilted his head a little, probably trying to figure out if he’d returned to find his friend had gone insane. Finally, he nodded.

“Go ahead.”

And then, Dean took a leap of faith. He grabbed the lapels of Castiel's coat, pulled him towards him and kissed him on the lips. It was hardly more than a peck, and Dean wasn’t even sure he’d _felt_ anything. But there, he’d kissed Cas and nothing had happened. His balls hadn’t fallen off, and he didn’t feel emasculated. Not even a little bit.

“Did you like it?” he asked breathlessly.

Castiel didn’t answer, only lowered his gaze and stared at the dirty wooden planks. Dean couldn’t really see what was going on in his face, but when he finally spoke, it didn’t bode well.

“I guess it was… okay.”

“Oh.”

_Well_ , he should have known. Castiel wasn’t into these things, and if he was, he probably dug girls. Just like Dean. Only Dean also dug Cas, but that didn’t really matter anymore, not if Cas—

“Hey.”

Dean had been so busy chastising himself that he was completely taken by surprise when Castiel gently touched his cheek.

“As I said, it was alright. But I believe you did it wrong. Could we try again?”

Dean didn’t know what to say to that. But then, he didn’t really have to.

Without further invitation, Castiel leaned forward and kissed him breathless. It didn’t stop then, just went on until Bobby’s porch turned into the most wonderful place in the whole universe, until December became mid-May and Dean had a hard time believing the world actually revolved around the sun.

“Now how did you like that?” Castiel whispered into Dean’s ear, breath still warm and heavy against Dean’s skin.

Dean tried a lot of different answers in his mind. Which wasn’t exactly an easy thing to do, with Castiel’s lips traveling across his face, over his cheekbone and down towards his lips. Most of the stuff he could have said sounded either cheap or sappy, so he settled for an answer he knew even Castiel would get.

“Awesome,” he said.

And because there could never be enough awesomeness in Dean Winchester’s life, he buried his hands in Castiel’s dark locks and pulled him down once more.

 

The End  



End file.
